


O Leãozinho

by bethepuck



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-02-25 10:42:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 44,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2618843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethepuck/pseuds/bethepuck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lionel Messi, unexpectedly, is traded to Real Madrid, for vague reasonings and is forced to leave his home, adjust to a new team, and face his greatest rival.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Permanent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is in response to a prompt (my first prompt ever so please bear with me here). I felt sort of bad about how boring my last fic was, so this is going to be a multi-chapter work. I'll try to update as much as possible, but it's looking like it will be a once a week update scheme. This first chapter is just to give background, so don't get too antsy just yet.
> 
> My tumblr is: http://messcri.tumblr.com  
> I post all Leo Messi, Cristiano Ronaldo, Madrid, and Barcelona.

_“You’re trading me where?”_

The room all of the sudden feels spinny and small, like the walls are closing in on him. Leo has always been aware of his height, but at this moment in time, sitting in the chair before Xavi, Enrique, and chairman Bartomeu, he’s never felt smaller. The air feels thin, the temperature humid despite the fans going full speed, and Leo wipes his sweaty palms on his dress pants. Words don’t pass his tongue, his throat closing, vetoing the voice box’s persistent pleas to be heard. His brain races at 100 mph, but not fast enough to match his thundering heartbeat loud in his ears, blood pulsing over the sound of Enrique’s voice.

“Well, we think it’s best for the team, Leo, that’s it,” Enrique says with a face of stone.

_Best for the team? I am the team._

Leo nods.

“And,” Bartomeu adds, despite how dearly Leo wishes everyone would just shut up, “Madrid has a very good group of guys as well, very tightly knit,” he intertwines his fingers together for emphasis, “You should fit in very nicely over there.”

_Over there. No, I want to stay here._

“But, Barcelona is my home,” Leo says quietly, eyes dropping to the floor, focusing solely on the square pattern of the carpet. It’s a very nice carpet, Leo comprehends, subtle, yet sleek.

“Yes, we know,” the chairman continues, “But, it’s time we all move on our separate paths.”

Leo looks to Xavi, who says nothing. He has said nothing ever since Leo first entered the office and continues to stare blankly at his now former teammate.

“Was I not producing enough? Not scoring enough?” Leo asks suddenly, abruptly.

The chairman looks surprised. Enrique does not.

“No-,” Enrique pauses thoughtfully as though searching for the words to let Leo down easily and not drop him farther down the cliff he already kicked him off of, “It’s time for a change.”

“Look, the deal is already made, you had a good run, Leo, but we can’t go back on it now,” the chairman finishes. That’s it. The gate closes in his face and he has to look the other way despite his heart and mind yearning to stay where he knows best to stay, where it is familiar.

Xavi’s mouth is formed into a thin, stern line. “Let’s go get your stuff from the locker room,” is all he says, his voice scratchy from underuse.

Leo stands, knees unsure if they’ll be able to hold his weight, yet they comply with slight confusion and hesitation. His legs are numb. Leo shakes each of the two men’s hands firmly before Xavi, standing by the door, motions for his exit.

They walk silently through the hall to the changing room, presumably the last time Leo ever will walk these halls without wearing the opposing jersey. Xavi seems to have no words, as if he is just as shocked as Leo is about the whole ordeal. This wasn’t supposed to happen. No, Leo had just broken the scoring record, they were going to come back and beat Madrid at the next Clasico. Leo wasn’t supposed to get traded, especially to the place that hates him the most.

Their feet hit the floor unsynchronized against the polished surface. Suddenly, Xavi pulls him into a tight hug, right then and there.

He breathes hard into Leo’s shoulder, “We’re going to miss you, Leo, promise you’ll never be their flea, only ours?”

Leo only nods, the situation still not fully sinking in.

They call him a legend. Kids wear his jersey all over the world. He can make the ball dance and defenders fall. He is titled as the world’s best, a gift from God to the football universe. This is a dream, yes, a nightmare and when he wakes up, when Xavi pulls back from their embrace, he will wake up in his big house, that he wont be moving out of any time soon, and everything will be as it was.

But, when Xavi lets go and they continue walking, the dream doesn’t clear and Leo is stuck with the realization that Madrid is permanent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was it okay? Sorry if I offended anyone, I thought it was kind of risky when I was writing it, but it makes for good drama building up for the *big meeting*. Feel free to comment and tell me what it was like. More to come soon! 
> 
> P.S. sorry this was so short, the majority of the chapters will be longer, I just wanted to get this bad boy started with some background.


	2. Goodbye, Leo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So remember when I was all like "I'll update once a week"? This is an exception. A BIG exception. I was at breakfast when inspiration slapped me upside the head. But yea, I'll update once a week normally. Also, this chapter delves a bit deep into Leo's sadness a few times so heads up.

The going away party is a few days later at Leo’s house. Most of his belongings are already packed in boxes and he only has one more change of clothing left out of the big suitcase at the bottom of the stairs to be brought to the airport the next morning. Alone in his large, now empty, house, Leo spends the whole day hiding the boxes so when his guests do arrive at seven, they wont focus on the real reason why they are coming in the first place. The packing process only takes a few hours and by the time he’s done, Leo is standing by himself, bare feet against bare floors. Exhausted, he collapses, back against the wall, staring out at his empty kingdom.

Leo’s furniture was given away almost immediately and the place is just a bleak wasteland of naked hardwood floors and blank walls once covered with pictures and paintings.

How did this happen? How did he even get here?

He’s the best in the world, how could he get traded? And to Madrid of all places?

Rain beats down against the house as it has been for the past couple days since Leo received the news. Sunlight has refrained from entering this home and the windows long to filter the rays again just as Leo longs to stay in Barcelona.

Tiredly, he runs his fingers across the worn floorboards. _Right now this hurts, it hurts so bad, but maybe… maybe in a couple days, weeks, months, it won’t sting so much._

 

They play FIFA and talk with loud, happy voices as if Leo wont be getting on a plane tomorrow, magically cutting all his ties to Barcelona from that point forward. Music sounds in the background all throughout the house so empty and clean, almost as though it could echo throughout the vacant rooms, but everyone is happy, and they don’t seem to notice the lack of décor. Isco brings streamers, balloons, confetti, the works, so the house would look colorful and vibrant, a pleasant occasion, the beginning of a new life with a different club, not the end of Leo’s life with Barcelona. There is even a big banner that Suarez shows up with that's signed by everyone. He hangs it up in the foyer when he arrives instead of the living room where he had originally planned to string it up because Piqué and Dani are already fighting over a game of FIFA in said room.

“You were Barça _last_ game,” Dani whines, but Piqué refuses to change sides.

“I don’t like playing as Madrid,” Piqué retorts, shoving his shoulder against Dani’s when the other man tries to grab the controller from his hand.

“You think _I_ like playing as Los Blancos? They’re so catty. Let _go_ ,” Dani insists, refusing to let go of the controller.

Leo leans against the doorway, watching them, the perfect distraction while Suarez sneaks behind him to tack up the banner with Pedro.

“You have Ronaldo, I get Messi, we’re even,” Piqué pulls the controller back with a huff.

“But it’s not the _same_ , Leo is _better_ and I hate Ronaldo. I don’t want to play now,” Dani complains and then the two start back up on how much they dislike Madrid.

Leo cringes. He’s one of _those_ now, branded as the player that Dani and Piqué and all the little Blaugrana children won’t want to play as because of the color of his shirt. He plays for that team now, the one that Barça fans and players curse the name of when they hear it out of the blue, the team that Leo himself cursed when they beat Barça in El Clasico back in October. But now, when his ex-teammates and fans use Los Blancos as a substitute for profanity, they will be blaspheming the name of Lionel Messi.

His thoughts are taken away by the unexpected noise that reflects that of an avalanche of snow tumbling down a mountain. He turns to see a startled Pedro standing beside a very frustrated Suarez rubbing his temples and glaring at the other man. A poster, or half of one at least, lies depleted in the middle of the floor, the other half still in Pedro’s stunned hands.

Suarez is fuming, practically blowing steam from his ears, streams of expletives in Spanish directed toward Pedro, spiting him for not being more careful, ending with his resolution to “go find some damn tape”, before storming into the kitchen.

“Please don’t bite me for this!” Pedro calls after him.

The doorbell rings six or seven times before Leo gets to the door, despite the short distance he stands away from it. Teammates file in with platters of food, movies they could watch, and going away gifts for Leo, all hugging him and grinning, others patting him on the head and kissing his cheeks joyfully, always smiling down at him. Eventually, Leo smiles too.

Mascherano brought Leo’s favorite movie, and all the players crowd together on the floor, passing around chips and salsa that Claudio brought, ignoring Xavi’s strict request to bring only healthy snacks to the party. Leo doesn’t really watch the movie; instead, he sits in the back with Neymar, a little bit segregated from the rest of the team, talking. A couple times, they get shushed by a still-irritated-over-the-ripped-poster Suarez who apparently really wants to hear the insignificant dialogue.

“If it’s that quiet in the first place, then maybe it’s not that imperative to the plotline,” Leo explains after the third time Luis turns around. Suarez isn’t budging.

When the movie ends and the lights come on, the crowd disperses to get drinks and turn the music back on. Someone, most likely, Dani, brought a piñata that is strung up in the empty dining room. Leo gets a couple whacks in before the brightly colored tissue paper donkey’s head flies off and candy comes flooding out. Like children, the Barcelona footballers attack the floor and fight over the sweets. Xavi stands in the doorway, horrified.

The music blasts once more and a couple guys begin to dance, some better than others. Neymar and Leo stand off to the side once again, like parent chaperones at a 7th grade dance, watching their teammates embarrass themselves and others attempting to sing. The whole scene is rather amusing.

In the living room, Xavi claps his hands and calls everyone into assembly, like a mother at her child’s fifth birthday party, and implores everyone circle up for presents. Iniesta and the former Arsenal captain, Thomas Vermaelen, are the first to rush from the kitchen to the other room and sit crisscrossed on the floor, urging their teammates to follow their example. Leo and Neymar follow lastly after grabbing drinks pre-poured into plastic cups from the kitchen, off the floor of course because of Leo’s lack of a kitchen table. Xavi glances at the cups in their hands as the two enter.

“That better be water or protein shake in there, Neymar,” Xavi says disapprovingly. He says nothing of Leo’s cup, no longer responsible for his nutrition habits.

On the wall, strung up finally after a terrible near death experience, is the banner, taped together in the middle but still clearly ripped because of how it leans, favoring the right side. WE <3 YOU LEO the poster says, written in rather feminine handwriting for what Leo expected from Luis Suarez.

Leo is invited to the middle of the circle where the massive pile of presents sits untouched. The wrap-jobs of some of the presents are downright embarrassing. It’s clear that the wives wrapped a couple, others have the paper most likely stolen from the leftovers of their children’s birthdays, covered in soccer balls and cartoony-looking footballers, and a few teammates didn’t even attempt to wrap their gift.

After opening all the gifts, a few of them including autographed photos of themselves instead of cards, Neymar comes forward, grinning.

“Open mine next,” Ney says slyly.

The guys start laughing, others grinning in acknowledgement. Clearly, it’s from everyone. The wrapping paper is blue and burgundy striped, the Barça colors, and taped on the front is the Barça crest, underneath it scrawled in sharpie in Neymar’s inscrutable handwriting are the words _Always a Blaugrana_. Leo’s lips curl into a smile, a warm feeling rushing through his chest.

“Thanks guys,” he looks out at the faces of his teammates, running his fingers across the logo.

“Open it!” “Look at what’s inside!” “Take the wrapping off!” “You haven’t even opened it yet!” They grin and laugh and cheer back at him.

Gently, Leo turns the gift over in his hands, carefully undoing the tape seams of the paper to avoid ripping it. The other footballers seem to lean in with anticipation.

His fingers find leave of the paper and touch fabric beneath, running across the material to pull it out by the sides. He feels letters sewn with fresh seams and is unable to suppress his own eagerness, pulling out what he already knows as a jersey. It’s not what he expected. The guys begin to laugh and shush each other to hold it in. It’s white. A blinding white, as though never worn, never touched by another pair of hands, completely clean, yet stained eternally by Leo’s fingertips gripping the material. Dark stripes adorn the shoulders, two buttons permeate down the front, and in bold, black lettering across the chest reads the words _Fly Emirates_. They pierce his soul, standing out against the white background, hitting him in the stomach like a stack of bricks. The Madrid crest stares him in the face like a serpent grinning its toothy grin, hissing, “ _Welcome to the dark side_ ”. The white fabric wears a face of purity, but the jersey itself looks as menacing as it can be. And Leo refuses to feel the fear that he wants to succumb to.

“Look at the back!” Piqué calls out, grinning, face alight.

He turns it over and stares at it. He had forgotten about this part. About the part where he would have to leave his friends, his teammates, his _brothers_ , and start anew. And he had forgotten about one very, very big thing.

Ronaldo is the name on the back, dark and unforgiving, bearing into Leo's eyes as though he is staring into the deep, effortless eyes of the man himself. The number 7 is immense and he can’t stop staring at the number lettering configuration. They’re embedded in the kit, black as pitch, soulless and boundless, yet graceful and suave. He can almost see Ronaldo’s cocky grin, his charming face, and hear the words he speaks.

To the left of the number is a name scribbled permanently into the cloth. You wouldn’t be able to tell it says Cristiano Ronaldo, it looks like a wavy blotch. The script is practically illegible.

“It’s even game worn!” Xavi grins, standing above Leo sitting cross-legged, thumping him on the back approvingly.

Out of instinct, he lets the jersey drop from his fingertips, landing in the paper in his lap, “Ew is he contagious?” Leo grins back, hiding his displeasure.

The guys laugh and take pictures with their phones, while some even request that Leo try it on. Neymar smiles. And Leo feels the change already, surrounded by all those whom he loves, he feels alone.

The party ends soon after, the music still blasting throughout the house. Leo hugs each of his teammates, ending up talking to each of them for a while, until Neymar is the last one to leave. They hug for what seems like forever, speaking so many words in such little time, until Neymar presses a kiss into Leo’s hair and pulls away. He looks sad.

“Don’t burn the jersey just yet,” Ney smiles sadly, “Sign it first then sell it. People will freak.”

“See you at El Clasico, Culé,” Leo waves as Neymar walks down the steps.

“Adiós, Madridista, stay out of trouble,” Ney grins back.

And as Leo watches Neymar walk down the driveway, the sound of the gravel crunching under his sneakers as he goes, he thinks back to an interview from a couple years ago. His hair was long, he had to keep swiping his bangs out of his eyes when the reporter asked, “Would you ever think of leaving Barcelona to play in the Premier League?” And Leo replied without hesitation, “I don't even think about that. Barcelona is my life. They have brought me to where I am today. I could not leave. I don't want to leave. I know the Premier League is very good and I watch the matches on TV when I get the chance, but, I cannot see myself playing in England because my heart is with Barcelona, always.”

Neymar’s car is gone now and Leo shuts the front door and walks back inside. The house is still empty, the floors clear of confetti and streamers, even the banner was taken down. All that is left is the jersey, the only present that Leo didn’t pick up off the floor and pack, alone in the middle of the room. He makes his way over to it, running a calm hand through his hair, eyes locked on the mangled heap of material on the floor before him.

In America, you are to kiss the flag fifty times if you drop it on the ground. Christians must kiss the Bible, if they drop their holy book, in repentance. As a Blaugrana, if you drop your jersey, you must kiss the crest. And now, as Leo stands with the Madrid jersey at his feet, he bends down and picks it up with gentle hands. He stares at the fabric for several long moments, skimming his fingers along the white, before pressing his lips to the crest as he had done many times for Barcelona, all while the heartbreaking words run through his head, “My heart is with Barcelona, always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to comment on anything, it's appreciated. Even if you hate me for adding that bit in at the end. Even I hate me for doing that.


	3. Welcome to Madrid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh so this chapter was really long and I was thinking about separating it into two, but I thought this would be better. Enjoy! Also there's a picture at the end so yea.

Leo arrives at the airport early the next morning dressed in a nice suit and tie with newly pressed pants and polished dress shoes. All his stuff was shipped earlier that morning and has probably already arrived in Madrid by now.

Leo doesn’t get nervous. He’s stood on an innumerable number of pitches in his life, shaken the hands of all his heroes, and won the best of awards, but as he stands before gate B12 en route to Madrid, he almost can’t board when they call his group. His feet stay planted, rooted into the gray carpeting, as people pass him, their own tickets in hand. This is it. Leo must leave his home. The moment he steps on the plane will be the last of him ever calling Barcelona a safe haven because when he return’s he will not return a hero, but a villain, a traitor even in the eyes of some. _This isn’t my fault; it’s not even my choice. If I could stay I would, but I can’t so I will go._

Leo wills his feet forward, handing his ticket to the lady and making his way down the tunnel without another thought that could persuade him to skip his flight and delay his new life any longer.

 

 _#10_ is all the sign that Iker Casillas holds says. The only good piece of information Leo has heard all week is that James Rodriguez, the current #10 on Madrid, was willing to let Leo have the number and switch his own to #21. Leo stands among a crowd of people, invisible to Iker and the rest of the world, his height playing a crucial role. He thinks for a brief moment that he could sneak out of the airport, leave Iker Casillas searching for a #10 that has already slipped out undetected, go live a life in secrecy and spend the rest of his days hiding from the Madridistas.

But Leo stays strong and doesn’t give in to his subconscious. He emerges from the people, giving a slight wave to catch the goaltender's gaze. Casillas smiles, lowering his sign and jogging to greet the shorter man with a wide, full hug.

“Leo! Glad to see you!” Iker beams down at the shorter man. Leo doubts the verity of his statement highly. Just five days ago they were on rival teams. It’s hard for anyone to adjust their hate list that fast.

“Hey, Iker,” Leo says in return, he can’t help but smile a little.

Side-by-side, they exit through the front of the airport to Iker’s car, a cherry red Fiat. Leo is surprised. He didn’t really take the collected, cool Real Madrid goaltender and captain as a Fiat type of guy…

Casillas is making jovial conversation, talking practically a mile a minute, clearly more excited about the situation than Leo is. He can’t keep up with the constant flood of information and most of it he misses anyway or gets lost in the goaltender’s Spanish accent.

“…And your stuff was sent to the training facility this morning, so we can pick it up real quick and then transfer it to Cris’ house,” Iker says as he pulls onto the main road before Leo even has his seatbelt on.

“Wait, what?” Leo catches something off.

“Your stuff was sent to the training facility this morning? Or I’m pretty sure it was, at lea-,” Casillas begins again, but Leo cuts him off.

“No, the other thing,” Leo says quickly. He feels bad about interrupting him, but he seems to have left his conscience and manners back in Barcelona with the rest of what he cares about.

“Transferring your stuff to Cris’ house?” Casillas hits the nail on the head, the exact part of the bell that didn’t ring quite right in Leo’s ears.

“Why would we do that?” Leo inquires boldly. The question cuts through the air and seems to drop like a rock hitting the surface of a pond, but Iker seems unfazed by the ripples.

“Oh, I didn’t tell you?” Iker begins, despite the idea that he probably already did inform Leo of this fact, but Leo just couldn’t keep up, “You’re rooming with Cris until we can find you an apartment. None of the other guys are really as qualified as he is and we thought it would be good if you two started the bonding process as soon as possible, seeing as-,” and that’s when Leo chooses to tune the goalkeeper out.

Who in their right mind would put Lionel Messi and Cristiano Ronaldo together as roommates, even if it was just temporary?

The car ride goes downhill fast when Iker chooses to roll down the windows and crank up the music. It’s salsa music, loud, peppy, and exotic, three emotions Leo definitely isn’t feeling at the moment. It’s also a brisk, yet sunny, day in Madrid, the wind blowing and the air hollow. Immediately, Leo is cold, but he can’t muster the energy or motivation to do anything about it. He sits in silent abhorrence until the little red fiat comes to a stop in front of the Real Madrid training facility.

The place is empty, as it is a Sunday, a day of rest naturally, and only a few cars are parked in the lot.

“There most likely won’t be many guys inside, but we can get you settled at your locker and then grab your stuff,” Iker is grinning again and Leo has the sudden urge to slap the expression right off his face. He doesn’t.

 

Leo peeks at the field as they pass by the tunnel.

“You can go on if you want,” Iker says quietly.

Leo nods and Iker continues on down the hall, leaving Leo by himself.

With tentative feet, he makes his way up the brief set of stairs to the pitch. The grass is freshly cut and watered with new paint lines on the sides. Reaching down, he brushes his fingers against the sprigs of grass that rush up to tickle his skin. The arena is massive, completely empty and vacant of all life aside from Leo and a forgotten ball on the sideline. He’s tempted to run with it, to fake out the nonexistent defenders and score, to clear his mind of all his worries for a moment, but he doesn’t. He’s wearing a suit and there will always be another time for practice. But, the ball looks so lonely, so perfect, begging Leo to use it the way it needs to be used. Before his conscience can loop back around in protest, Leo is sprinting to the line, the passion and fire he has suppressed for the past couple of days unleashing itself in all its glory and magnificence on the ball. It soars, as though the little ball had just sprouted wings and is taking flight for the first time, over the net, landing in the third or second row of seats.

Leo’s shoes are wet, evidence of the crime he just committed. They squeak as they make their way down the hallway following where Iker disappeared. He hears voices and laughter echoing through the hall and follows it to the source, a locker room filled with five players; Casillas, Marcelo, Bale, Rodriguez, and Benzema. They stop talking when Leo enters. He can feel his ears grow hot and red. _Why are they staring?_

“Hey, Leo,” Benzema says calmly, a reserved, welcoming smile on his face. He looks content, relaxed. He comes forward and shakes Leo’s hand, not saying anything about how sweaty they are. Bale stares wordlessly, he looks almost angry about Leo’s presence, a confirmation of his existence. Marcelo shares a couple quiet words with the captain before Iker nods and Marcelo leaves the room. Rodriguez shifts his weight uncomfortably, staring off to the side at a random spot on the floor.

“Uh, thanks for the number,” Leo says awkwardly to James.

The younger man smiles a nervous smile and nods, making brief eye contact.

The room is silent once again. You could hear a pin drop and Leo wishes a pin would drop to break the stillness even a little bit. His eyes scan the room, catching a blank locker.

“Is that mine?” Leo points to the spot.

“Uh, yes, yes it is,” Iker turns around immediately, his response rushed.

He makes his way over to it. On a notecard taped to the back is the name _Lionel Messi_. He sits in the stall, grinning a little to himself, well aware of everyone’s eyes on him. “Very roomy,” Leo says, running his fingers along the polished wooden seat.

Voices echo from outside the locker room and Marcelo enters, unaccompanied at first. A voice outside the door has all the heads turned toward the entrance in anticipation.

“Did we not have practice today? I thought you said everyone was here. Marcelo, man where’d you go?” The voice makes himself known as soon as he enters the locker room.

He’s smirking, perfect teeth curved into a perfect smile. He stops after a few steps into the locker room. No one says a word to him as he stands there, observing his teammates’ blank, uneasy faces. Bale wears an “I told you so” expression, arms folded across his chest.

“What’s up? Why is everyone so quiet?” Cristiano is still amused, so he must have not spotted Leo yet.

Leo wishes he could just disappear, wishes he could curl up in the locker and never be seen again.

Bale nods toward Leo sitting deadpan, eyes locked on Cristiano’s frame. Ronaldo’s smile barely falters.

“Is this some kind of joke? What does he want? An autograph?” Ronaldo laughs harshly to himself, but the serious expressions of his teammates alert him that the situation is not a prank, but very real.

“I go on vacation for one week and all of the sudden a Blaugrana is sitting in our locker room. _Dios mio_ ,” Cristiano walks to his stall to arrange a couple personal items on the top shelf.

No one says a word.

“I’m guessing you didn’t get the texts?” Casillas says firmly.

“Texts? What texts? Iker, I was in another _country_ , no cellular, my friend,” Cristiano grabs a couple empty water bottles, presumably from the last practice that he was too lazy to throw out, and tosses them in the trash across the room, missing most of his shots. Marcelo so graciously picks them up for Cristiano so he doesn’t have to waste any of his own precious energy.

“Leo-,” James begins weakly but fails to accomplish anything with his brief moment in the limelight. “he was-,” Marcelo continues but pauses, unsure of himself.

“Leo is one of us now, Cris,” Iker finally says.

Cris is still smiling, still is convinced that this is some kind of prank, “You’re not serious, right?” He asks after a brief recess.

No one says anything, their silence a confirmation.

And that’s when Cristiano’s expression falls. Immediately, dark eyes flick to Leo’s small frame within the locker, narrowing with anger and hatred.

“It’s a cold day in hell when Lionel Messi plays for Madrid,” Cristiano growls, taking a couple steps closer as if he wants to further examine the new species of flea that has just made its home in the carpeting.

“It’s funny that you bring that up, I did notice that it is rather chilly outside today,” Leo manages to insult everyone in the room with his first full sentence.

Bale exits the room without a word and Iker, James, and Benzema who stand near the stall take several steps back to give the rivals their space.

“You’ll _never_ be one of us. _Never_ ,” Cristiano hisses through gritted teeth.

“Oh thank _God_ , I thought I had something to worry about for a minute there,” Leo has no idea where this sass has emerged from, but he’s certainly not making any friends with it.

Suddenly, the taller man spins on his heel to face the captain, “Where is he staying? Who is he rooming with?”

“We all voted and thought it would be healthy if Leo stayed with you,” Iker says calmly.

Leo thinks Cristiano might explode. It’s a lot of information for one drama queen to take in in one day.

 _“Are you serious?”_ Cristiano grins again, back to his initial state of denial.

“Completely,” Leo says, setting his jaw.

Cristiano makes a fist. He looks like he could punch Leo at this point. He has enough pent up anger to kick the snot out of Mike Tyson. Cristiano takes his leave, exiting to another part of the locker room. A loud crash is heard followed by loud cussing and expletives that Mama Ronaldo would not be happy to hear.

“You better clean that up!” Casillas calls to Cristiano.

“Only after you clean up that mess in there!” Cristiano shouts back.

“It’s pronounced Messi, actually, but you’ll get there!” Leo replies.

Another loud crash can be heard from the other room followed by more cussing.

“He’ll cool down, soon,” Benzema assures Leo, resting a hand on his shoulder.

Silence fills the locker room as Cristiano’s fit of rage seems to have expired; he doesn’t reenter just yet. The peace is rather unsettling.

“Why don’t we go get your stuff, hmm?” Iker says gently, voice very tender as if Leo was the one at fault, a child who tipped over a vase and broke it accidentally.

That’s how Leo feels as he stands, taking one final glance at his stall where he will spend the year lacing up his cleats and preparing for home games.

Marcelo, Rodriguez, and Benzema go to check on Cris in the other room presumably to make sure he didn’t break anything irreplaceable as Leo and Iker exit to the hallway.

They walk noiselessly down the hall for what feels like the hundredth time. It’s only been about ten minutes and Leo already thinks he knows his way around the place. He watches his dress shoes as they hit the floor, _just think_ , a voice in Leo’s head whispers, _the feet of a thousand blancos have walked in this exact spot where you walk now_ , and Leo struggles to shake the thought from his mind because now he is one of them, one of the thousand meringue feet.

They stop moving all at once.

The goaltender seems puzzled as they arrive at the equipment room.

“They were supposed to bring the stuff in here…” He checks under a couple training bags, nudging them to the side with little effort, but Leo’s four leather duffels containing his entire life in Barcelona are nowhere to be found.

“I’ll be right back. I’m going to make a few calls,” Iker says briefly before leaving Leo alone.

The equipment closet is massive with rows of spare cleats hanging on the wall to his left and practice jerseys, prepped for the next training session on the right. Shin guards lie in boxes unopened on the floor underneath a rack of drying water bottles. Three large washing machines loom in the corner next to three even larger dryers, each machine spinning full speed, loud and intimidating. Leo can make out the white Real Madrid kits within, rotating round and round, wondering if his jersey is somewhere in there mixed among the rest, newer than the others, a brighter, unscathed #10 not yet known to the pitch. Scattered about the floor haphazardly footballs sit, all clean as though never practiced with in addition to the multicolored pinnies strewn about in mangled, careless heaps as if the players just toss them on the floor casually, shut the light off, and leave without a second thought every single time.

Iker returns, a distraught look painted on his face, eyebrows knit together as though he presents concern for the fact that Leo is exactly where he left him.

“So, uh, they couldn’t find your bags at the airport,” Casillas says immediately, sighing halfway through his sentence, eyes to the floor almost shamefully.

Leo remains silent. The sounds of the machines working fill the room. Iker looks to him expectantly. What does he want him to say? Does he want him to get angry? Does he want him to flip out and start grabbing the cleats off the wall and throwing them to display some sign of emotion, some sign that Leo is human? Frankly, Leo doesn’t even really care at this point. He’s never felt lower than in these past couple of days, his bags getting lost at the airport doesn’t sink him any further down.

“Okay,” Leo says flatly, shrugging.

And Iker starts talking fast, apologizing and saying all kinds of other nonsense, reassuring Leo that they’ll track where they sent his stuff off to, but Leo puts his hand up for the goalie to stop worrying further. If Xavi were still his captain and Leo lost his bags, he’d tell Leo to suck it up and deal with the situation himself.

They make their way out to the front of the training facility where Cristiano sits, waiting in his car, a black Bentley, windows down, shades on, music blasting. Even under the sunglasses, Leo can tell he’s glaring, brown eyes narrowed on Leo like a lion stalking prey. Leo gets into the passenger side wordlessly, Cristiano’s eyes following him. Iker exchanges a couple words with Cris about how there isn’t practice until Tuesday, Carlo giving the boys a few days off to settle themselves and get their minds right and whatnot with all the drama going around in the tabloids, but Cristiano barely seems to care. He gives a nod when Iker is done and the car speeds forward before Leo can even wave bye.

The Portuguese doesn’t look at Leo at first, completely rejecting his presence, the mindset of _if I don’t look at it, then it’s not there_. But, Cris isn’t alone; Leo lives and breathes on, watching out the window as Madrid passes by him in flashes, paying no attention to the man in the driver’s seat likewise, simply Leo doesn’t complete such a task on purpose. Only when Leo reaches out courageously to turn down the awful music does Cristiano give the smaller man any notice, swatting his hand away, brandishing a half-smirk that comes across as a snarl. Leo pays no mind to it.

“You have no power here, Blaugrana,” Cristiano instigates.

They sit in stark silence, aside from the music filling the chilly air circulating through the car as they speed down the road until the Bentley rolls to stop at a red light and Cris examines Leo with dark eyes, coming across as almost disgusted. He bites his lip, coming to a conclusion of sorts before locking eyes with Leo’s once again, saying nothing, but continuing when the light turns green, looking at Leo no further for the remainder of the ride, which is fine with him, he just turns his head to watch as the scenery passes by, the wind carding through his hair, nipping at his cheeks.

 

Cristiano lives in a massive house on a huge plot of land just outside the city. A long brick driveway leads up to the house itself, a pearly white, beautifully maintained mansion, a large yard out front and from what Leo can see, probably an even larger one out back. Cris doesn’t wait for Leo after parking the Bentley among his other nine or ten luxury cars before getting out of the car, striding up the steps fluidly, and unlocking and opening the door in one swift motion, leaving it slightly ajar for Leo, just open enough for the Argentinian to comprehend that he is welcome, but only because Iker said so.

Leo takes his time along the driveway, hands in his pockets, admiring Cristiano’s choice of greenery lining the house. It looks as though Cris has no neighbors, at least not any that live nearby, the house sits completely in its lonesome overlooking the city.

The ceiling is the first thing Leo notices when he passes through the front door, shutting it behind him. Large and arching with a stunning chandelier hanging, it looks like it should be in some fancy French baroque ballroom not Cristiano Ronaldo’s foyer. Cristiano doesn’t pay mind to it, loosening his tie and draping his jacket over the banister.

“I didn’t know that I would be having a guest,” Cristiano begins, removing his dress shoes and placing them in a hall closet that Leo didn’t even notice at first, “So you’ll have to wait for Maria to have your room made up.”

“Maria?” Leo questions.

“My maid,” Cristiano answers easily with a bored gaze. As if Leo should have known that Ronaldo has a maid.

“Oh,” Leo says lamely, glancing to his left, attempting to get a glimpse of a sitting room adorned with fancy furniture and a grand fireplace, where above sit trophies and metals, jerseys framed all with the number 7 and the name Ronaldo, mirroring the one Neymar gave him only a day before, still untouched and folded in a suitcase that took one too many plane rides.

“Do you need anything?” Cristiano stares at Leo expectantly after several moments of silence, seemingly irritated by Leo examining his living room.

“Actually-,” Leo starts, but Cristiano has already turned and left the room, “A shower would be nice…” he mumbles to himself, making his way up the grand staircase leading to the upstairs rooms where he might aid himself.

He finds Cristiano’s bedroom with much difficulty after checking other various bathrooms, guest rooms, sitting rooms, walking into each, jumping on a couple sofas and beds, running his fingers across several expertly woven bedspreads, even hiding behind some unnecessarily large curtains until he finds the room he’s searching for, the third door on the right.

A lush, ivory carpet covers the floor and standing boldly on the far wall sits a grand bed, perfectly made up with pale, nonpatterned, blue covers and white sheets. Large floor to ceiling windows bring clear light flooding into the room, and for a brief moment for the first time in days, an overwhelming sense of calmness and relaxation rushes over Leo. He stands before the pure, brilliant sunlight, letting it drape over his face and warm his cheeks that suffered a chilling trouncing from the harsh road winds.

After a few moments, he notices a seemingly promising armoire to his left, which he doesn’t hesitate to go to, opening it up, and taking what he deems as necessary. It’s not like he’s going to wear the same pair of clothes until they find his bags, so Leo picks out a pair of white shorts, a tank top, and some underwear hidden at the bottom of the drawers underneath designer jeans and freshly ironed and starched button shirts for now, not being too picky with what he finds, keeping the mindset that he has no one to impress in this home so why should he dress like he does, tiptoeing over to the other side of the room, sliding across the bed as part of his motive of transportation. The entire place is spotless, not a piece of clothing on the floor or item out of place; then again Cristiano does have a maid to pick up after him.

Cristiano’s walk-in bathroom is much more than Leo expected. Sure, he had a big house back in Barcelona and an even bigger one in Argentina, but nothing compares even a little to Cristiano’s bathroom. Walls are painted a textured, bleached white, and a fairly large, square window evades the wall in the far corner. The floors are white marble, freshly polished to shine, a black-floored Jacuzzi on one side and a glass, tile-floored shower on the opposite side.

Leo gets out of his clothes so fast, chucking them in the hamper in the corner, grinning to himself, practically sprinting to the shower to turn on the stream. The water pressure has eight setting and Leo tries each until he finds a favorite, allowing the warm water to roll off his skin, soothing his muscles, and for a moment, he lets himself forget where he is and whom he is with.  He rests his forehead against the cool glass, hair plastered against his skin, dripping, breath settling, chest heaving, and his eyes flutter shut, the sounds of the water droplets pounding against the tile floor filling his ears. Suddenly he’s on the pitch, feet moving fast as lightening and the defenders can’t keep up, one goes down, then two, and then Leo stands alone, face-to-face with the goaltender, the roars of the fans filling the arena. He glances from the ball at his feet, moments before he shoots, to see the face of the goaltender, Claudio Bravo, _Barça’s_ Claudio Bravo. He looks down at his kit, drenched in a ghostly white, and behind him, the Blaugranas speed toward him, not to celebrate with him, to be the end of him, followed by more in the same blanched kits, yelling at Leo to shoot. But, he can’t. He won’t. But his feet do, they pick the top right corner and the ball sails to where it is commanded to go, to where Los Blancos want it to go and where all of Barcelona prays it won’t go. The sound of the ball hitting the back netting is all Leo can hear. And then others wearing white are jumping on him, hugging him, patting his head, and Leo can’t see anything else but his ex-teammates, blank faces as they stare at him, as if they don’t know him. Leo blinks his eyes open, focusing them elsewhere, pushing the thought out of his mind. The assortment of shampoos, body washes, conditioners, and soaps stocked on the shower ledge is nauseating, and Leo instantly remembers where he is and whom he is with.

He spends so much time experimenting with the different shower gels that the mirror is opaque with steam when he finally steps out. Once again, Leo is faced with a difficult decision, this time with towels. All of them look fancy, different colors and materials, probably imported from somewhere far away and bizarre. He chooses a dark blue one, tying it around his waist, rubbing away the condensation marring the mirror in order to examine himself. He hasn’t checked his appearance in a few days, hasn’t had the energy or motivation to care what he looked like.

A pale, melancholy-faced man stares back at Leo. Dark hair is swept out of his face and dark, empty eyes observe Leo’s frame in the mirror. He smiles at this man that reflects back at him and the man smiles back, but his eyes remain sad, luster lost from the deepest part of him. A faded bruise permeates his pale skin above his belly button from when he ran into the kitchen table, when he still _had_ a kitchen table, before he knew that he would no longer play for Barcelona. He was on his way out the door, rushing because he was late, searching desperately for his keys. They sat innocently on the table while Leo looked everywhere else except the obvious. Too preoccupied with other things, such as the random meeting that Xavi informed him of that morning, an urgent request of his presence in Enrique’s office at 11, that when he finally did find them, he failed to avoid the hazardous corner anticipating Leo’s mistake.

He pushes the memory out of his mind, averting his eyes from the mirror, dressing quickly before tossing the towel into the hamper next to the sink and departing even more quickly. Cristiano is standing at his bed, unpacking from his vacation when Leo enters. The Portuguese is completely unfazed by Leo’s appearance; his wet hair from using _his_ shower, the clothing that he wears taken from _his_ armoire, barely sparing a look despite the rather aggravated look on the man’s face. He continues to unpack, tossing clothing in the hamper on the opposite side of the bed silently. Leo’s clothes are folded already at the foot of the bed and his suit jacket is hung up on a hanger on the back of the closet door. Briefly, he muses this as the work of Maria, but he instantly contemplates otherwise, for the maid has yet to make an appearance.

“Madrid of all places,” Cristiano says quietly to himself.

“You think I want to be here?” Leo replies calmly, traversing to the other side of the room to stare out the window. He would like to go out onto the balcony but doesn’t fully trust the madridista to let him back in.

“They couldn’t just ship you off to another club that _actually_ wants you?” Cristiano continues to be rude.

Leo shoots a glare off in Cristiano’s direction, but the Portuguese doesn’t pay mind, continues with his pestering, “I think you wanted to get out of there, come to a club that knows how to win.”

Leo turns from the view from the window to stare at Cristiano with piercing eyes, who is already facing him. Cris raises an eyebrow. He’s been searching for a fight ever since Leo showed up in the locker room this morning and it’s growing harder each second not to kick Cristiano’s teeth in.

“What’s wrong, Leo?” Cristiano says soothingly, taking a step forward, eyes locked on the shorter man, “Can’t find the words?”

Lionel keeps his mouth shut, observing Cristiano slowly closing in on him. He’s at least four or five inches taller than Leo, shoulders broader, hair more gelled.

“Or maybe you know I’m right,” Cristiano grins, eyes alight with excitement.

Leo bites his lip. Cristiano is watching his every move, every intake of breath, every glance anywhere that isn’t on Cristiano.

They’re so close now that Leo can smell his cologne.

And that’s when Maria decides to show up. The sound of the front door shutting loudly has Cristiano rolling his eyes and wincing. _“It’s black oak, Maria,”_ he hisses to himself, taking a step back, forgetting about Leo and vacating the room to deal with the maid.

Leo shrugs, letting out a breath that he didn’t know he was holding, finding another room to explore among the vast array of shut doors dotting the long hallway. The one next door to the master bedroom is decorated in all pale pastels, easy on the eyes, with every piece of furniture ornate and sophisticated. A single Ballon d’Or sits alone on a grand shelf above the mantel, glinting in the early afternoon sunlight filtering in from behind pale blue curtains, a blue that reminds Leo of Argentina, a home that no one can ever take away from him like they did with Barcelona. The sight of the trophy on the mantel and the color of the curtains makes Leo feel queasy, unsettled, and he makes a break for the door immediately, fleeing from the pastels and ornate furniture and a life that he can never get back.

He spends this day, his first day in Madrid, lounging about in the countless number of rooms of Cristiano Ronaldo’s house, only changing scenery when Maria or Cristiano somehow manage to find themselves in the same room as him, Leo always leaving instantly, picking a new door. Normally, each room seems fine at first, as gorgeous and extravagant as the next, yet the more time he spends among the lush carpets and modern décor of each, the quicker he catches a flaw, a piece that reminds him of his previous life of Leo the Blaugrana, making him yearn to go back, to be anything but Leo the Blanco.

The sun is sinking beneath the tall buildings that cement the city when the doorbell rings. Leo is reclined on a chestnut colored couch, big enough for at least seven or eight people, but satisfying just Leo, in one of the various sitting rooms down the hall when he hears Cristiano’s bare feet scuffing across the hardwood floor to get the door. Light music drifts throughout airily and little commotion from the rest of the house can be heard, the majority of the noise coming from a city wide awake behind a sliding glass door behind the couch, lights blooming on all over the dark city and Leo watches them flicker, glimmering in the night until Cristiano clears his throat.

“I don’t normally get takeout,” Cristiano begins, staring uncertainly at the styrofoam cartons in his hands, “But I thought we should celebrate.”

Leo is about to question the Portuguese, pull a, “ _celebrate what? My failures that brought me here?”_ But he refrains, a shy smile of gratitude tugging at his lips. His greatest rival, Cristiano Ronaldo, bought him dinner, he’s _trying_.

Cristiano spreads the boxes out on the carpet, Leo watching him do so from his seat on the couch, propped up onto his elbows. He seems unsure of every move he makes as if he doesn’t know what to do with the plastic forks and paper napkins, picking them up and putting them back down again just to pick them up again.

“Have you ever done this before?” Leo asks finally after several moments of stillness and Cristiano staring blankly at the containers as though they stand between him and the goal.

“Of course I have,” the man on the floor snaps, eyes hostile, expression forming a scowl, “Just. Not recently,” Cris’ voice drops off to a low murmur at the end and his eyes dart to the floor, expression softening, “Maria makes all my meals, I mean.”

Leo nods understandingly when Cristiano looks up once more.

They barely talk while they eat, Cristiano on his phone the whole time and Leo staring out at the city coming to life, never looking at each other. Leo occasionally comments on the food, asking what Cristiano ordered poking it curiously with his fork, who replies with a shrug and a, “I don’t know, I just picked what sounded best.”

When dinner is over and Cristiano sweeps the containers into a brown paper bag, the two sit quietly, Leo lying on his back on the couch and Cristiano on the floor, saying nothing once again. Without reason, Cristiano grins and glances from his phone to stare at Leo.

“What?” Lionel asks, feeling the full heat of Cristiano’s heavy gaze on him.

“Iker wants proof that we haven’t killed each other yet,” Cris’ expression is almost genuine, barely a hint of arrogance behind his outer shell.

Leo smiles ever so slightly.

“Act like you’re having fun,” Cristiano demands as he pushes himself upright, taking a quick picture, the flash filling the room, catching Leo a little off guard. He sends it anyway.

Cristiano stands now, watching Leo with those eyes, soft yet intense. He looks like he wants to stay something further, something important, bottom lip caught between perfect teeth.

“So, your room is across the hall,” Cris says almost uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck, conscious of Leo’s attention. The bold, suave, Cristiano Ronaldo almost seems out of words before the humble, little Lionel Messi.

Leo can’t help but grin a bit to himself when Cristiano turns to leave, yet at the door, halfway into the hallway, he stops himself and reenters. Leo is studying the skyline again, not even sparing a glance to the other man.

“And Leo,” Cristiano begins, regaining Leo’s attentiveness, competing with the view for Leo’s gaze, “Welcome to Madrid.”

And this is the scariest part of it all. Cristiano’s expression seems truly infallible, and it hits him like a truck, the sickness and lightheadedness returning wave after wave. Cristiano is gone but his words remain in the air, lingering in his thoughts, and Leo wishes he hadn’t said that, wishes he wasn’t so friendly toward him, and secretly, deep down in a dark place, wishes they were still rivals, because that would mean that maybe all this wasn’t all that real and maybe all this wasn’t completely official and irrevocable and maybe, just maybe, a little piece of his old life was still intact. It might be the overly comfortable bed or the expensive Turkish bedcovers or possibly even the excessive amounts of pillows, but that night, Leo barely sleeps.

 

Cristiano's picture to Iker:

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was it okay? Feel free to comment it's very encouraging and helpful :) Definitely more to come soon, I'll probably write a lot over the Thanksgiving break.


	4. A Sea of Burgundy and Royal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took forever to update :/ Please be patient with me still! <33 Also, lovin' all the records Leo is breaking right now :)

The locker room is loud, voices overlapping and meshing into a medley of confusion, and almost immediately after he enters, the noise drops to a silent nothing and 22 pairs of eyes flicker to Leo’s short frame as he makes his way to his locker, now with his nameplate installed with _Messi_ written in fancy lettering. _This is home now. This is mine now. This is where I belong._ His mind repeats what he should be thinking, what he needs to be thinking at this point. A bright orange practice jersey that looks like a traffic cone sits folded on the polished bench mimicking the other stalls. _I’m just like all of them now, no better, no worse._ He reaches a couple fingers to brush across the smooth fabric.His custom cleats, set up by the equipment manager, rest in the lower stall next to a clean pair of black shorts, white lines streaking down the sides.

He bites back an expression of displeasure at the color scheme and his eyes take several moments to adjust to the non-nike sponsored attire and normal colored fabric, not resembling the hot pink that he’s worn so many times before. The heart within his chest quickens and races, head light, hands sweating, everything is happening so _fast._ Just last week at this exact same time, he was joking with Neymar about how much gel Cristiano uses in a month, and now, now he will actually see how much the man uses. To his right sits Benzema, already dressed, expression softly molded into one of contentment. In contrast, gritting his teeth and frowning, sits an agitated Bale in the stall to the left. Leo barely spares a glance, tossing his bag onto the seat and drawing his phone out of his pocket to check the time. Everyone is fully dressed or almost at that point, despite the 30 minutes of time they have to kill before practice begins.

The talking resumes after Leo’s presence loses its luster. No one bothers him; no one says hi, they just talk amongst themselves. Leo hears what they say. They think they’re whispering, but Leo’s too-big-for-his-head ears pick up on their rumors.

“They say he had a terrible post-game temper…”

“I heard he slept with one of the wives...”

“Because he didn’t win the Ballon d’Or…”

“Didn’t beat enough records…”

“He was so good that they couldn’t find a spot for him anymore because he played as every spot…”

The last one was James from across the room whispering to a seemingly bored Pepe scrolling through his phone and occasionally glancing at the younger man.

He stares at his hands as he waits for the time to dwindle, trying to block out the gossip. Sergio Ramos stands next to a water cooler, sipping his cup thoughtfully, glaring at Leo behind the paper rim. He looks like he’s contemplating all the witty, rude remarks he wants to say to Leo and all he needs is the courage that can make his feet propel him forward. Several stalls down, Cristiano’s locker presents itself abandoned, its owner leaving the room as soon as he was dressed to be the first on the pitch. Leo doesn’t hesitate when he stands, ignoring the eyes that return to track him as he exits to the main hall just as a newly confident Sergio Ramos takes a step toward him before losing the flame altogether, standing with his cup awkwardly in his hand and words stuck on his tongue.

Cristiano is on the field, already warmed up, weaving in and out of cones like defenders, dashing to the goal like a winning race horse on the last few feet of track. Leo stares. Dew dots the morning grass as the sun peaks over the stadium, its rays sweeping across the darkened field. He watches Cristiano’s feet as the move, zig-zagging freely, crossing over and darting about as though they are a separate entity from his body. And then he stops. He notices Leo’s gaze and freezes, the ball rolling aimlessly to the side. He says nothing, eyes dark, lips pressed into a thin line of dissatisfaction. The field is calm, air still aside from a small flock of birds passing overhead, and the two rivals stand, very aware of the other’s company.

Leo makes the first move, taking a couple strides toward the ball, the grass flicking water droplets across his ankles as he moves as though trying to slow him down or stop him altogether, acting as successfully as a defender in itself, dribbling it in, and knocking it low right corner, goal post and in. Cristiano says nothing. Leo shoots Cris a small, reserved grin as he jogs to find another ball a little distance away and does the same, hitting the exact spot once again. Only after the third time does Cristiano speak.

“You’re doing it wrong,” He says simply as Leo is about to take the shot.

“What?” Leo stops himself and turns toward the Portuguese whose arms are pressed, folded across his chest.

“You’re doing it wrong, you can’t just use your left foot all the time,” Cristiano states easily.

“Yes I can,” Leo says stubbornly.

Cristiano smiles like he’s talking to a difficult child, “No, no, Leo, you _can’t_ ,” emphasizing the “t”, “Because then you’ll be predictable,” he ends with tapping Leo lightly on the nose.

Leo says nothing, glaring in abhorrence at the taller man. Cristiano’s face grows serious.

“Like this,” he says, dribbling in with the ball using both feet and hitting the low right corner.

He turns to face Leo, a cocky grin permeating his face. _This_ is the Cristiano Ronaldo Leo knows, arrogant, flamboyant, and narcissistic.

Cristiano’s gaze goes above Leo’s head, where, if Leo were Cristiano’s height, his eyes would bare back into Cris’ stare. Rude.

“My eyes are down here,” Leo says impatiently.

“Lionel Messi,” a voice beams from behind.

The team has begun to jog onto the pitch, some players touching the grass for luck, others grabbing balls and starting to pass with one another. The coach, Carlo, stands, grinning, immediately shaking Leo’s hand as soon as the shorter man turns around. It’s too firm, as if coach wants to break all his fingers with the handshake. Leo holds back his wincing. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Cristiano stalking off in another direction toward Bale and Marcelo who watch idly.

Carlo is saying all the stuff that he’s supposed to say, occasionally cracking a couple too-soon dry jokes about Barcelona, before clapping Leo on the back and shooing him off. He feels like it’s his first day of kindergarten and his mom is forcing him to make friends with other little kids even though they make fun of his ears and out of style backpack.

James must spot Leo walking about aimlessly looking around and makes a poor attempt at a wave to get the Argentinian’s attention. Despite Leo’s pointless path, James is the one who looks lost. His ears are bright red, eyes flicking to the ground when Leo nods in acknowledgement, a sentence just barley stuttering passed his lips.

“Do you want to-?” James points to a ball to the left, pausing briefly in his question, resuming when Leo encourages him to continue, “I mean you don’t have to-,” he’s using a lot of hand motions, trying very hard to pantomime what he wants to say when his words fail him, “I mean I just thought because-,” and Leo feels sorry for the kid, so he nods and James smiles gratefully, grabbing the ball and making space.

Carlo’s whistle permeates the almost-silent morning air, shouting out orders abruptly and suddenly. Los Blancos sprint to the sideline, grabbing pinnies and jogging into pre-arranged groups. Leo stands to the side, watching them, unsure of what is going on, that is, until a rather irritated Ronaldo, from across the pitch, rolls his eyes, displaying his displeasure, before making his way over to Leo.

He thrusts a pinny into Leo’s hands, mumbling a, “Put this on,” before motioning for Benzema to come over. Bale sends seething glares Leo’s direction frequently as he makes his way next to James, sulking almost. The Argentinian observes the mangled heap of cloth between his fingertips, it’s a light blue, like the morning sky waking up above their heads. Bale wears a yellow one and is clearly distraught about it. And it hits Leo. Benzema eyes him warily, but pays Leo no mind, pulling his own blue pinny over his head with Cristiano’s matching the blues evenly all the same. _We’re a line_. _We’re one._ Bale looks disgusted, absolutely repulsed, when Leo finally tugs the thing over his head, his ears momentarily slowing the process down, but getting there ever still.

 

His feet pound the pitch one after the other, darting down the sideline, the ball at his toes. Cristiano calls for it as he streaks through the middle but Leo doesn’t comply, taking a few steps further and crossing the ball to Benzema backdoor. It’s easy work for the forward from there, tipping it past Iker with no trouble. Cristiano looks annoyed as they clear to the sideline for the next group to go.

“I was open,” Cris says, a hint of a temper revealing itself underneath seemingly calm words.

“So was Benzema,” Leo retorts simply.

“But you chose the harder pass,” Cristiano breathes out, grabbing a water off a metal bench, still walking, never breaking stride, squeezing a few squirts into his mouth before tossing the bottle into the grass carelessly.

“I chose the _better_ pass,” Leo replies, stopping to pick up the bottle from the grass and place it back on the bench.

Cristiano rolls his eyes, saying nothing further.

Leo takes the middle on the next round, and Cristiano takes the strong side. The two legends explode passed the halfway line, weaving away from defenders, blazing a path behind each. Leo calls out for the ball, nearing the goalie box first, but Cristiano ignores the request, shooting the pass long to Benzema, too far for his reach, rolling out of bounds, defeated.

Leo doesn’t say it as they walk back to their starting position, but Cristiano acts as though he does. _I was open._

The next rep is worse than the first two. Leo had discussed the play before they started up again, but Cristiano hadn’t listened to one word, just watched the other groups go through absent-mindedly. So when Leo cuts lanes to receive the drop-pass from Cristiano, the other forward runs into him with all his force. They hit the ground practically in-synch. It feels like the whole world is watching when they collide, just face palming and thinking, “We saw this coming”.

“What are you _doing_?” Cristiano hisses between gritted teeth, rubbing his shoulder where Leo clipped him, well aware of the eyes on them.

“What are _you_ doing?” Leo replies, no anger in his tone, just disappointment.

He lets Cristiano help him up, but they don’t speak afterwards. Everything feels like a disaster.

Carlo calls for one more set before the end of practice and Leo sends a quick thank you prayer to God.

Leo starts far side, and Cristiano, the near side, as distant from each other as possible. Cris has the ball at his feet, chasing down the sideline. When Leo calls for the ball, he doesn’t expect to actually receive it moments later, knocking it bar and in over Iker’s outstretched hands. And then the pitch is silent. Cris looks to Leo and Leo to Cris. It’s not much, just a crossing drill at the end of the first practice, but it’s something, it’s a show of the possibilities between the two, what a pairing they can make, how they could become unstoppable if they work at building their chemistry. The other players say nothing. They know it too. They know that that set, that perfect pass followed by the perfect goal is the first of many.

Carlo pronounces the end of practice and shouts out a couple announcements, but Leo doesn’t hear it. His eyes are on Cristiano, now at his side, grabbing a hold of his forearm.

“One on one. Now,” Cris insists.

“Can’t we do this another time,” Leo replies, the other players leaving the field to stretch inside.

“I want to see what you can do,” is all he says, grabbing a ball to the right, “First one to four, posts are goals.”

Leo doesn’t protest.

Feet move quickly, unstoppable, unpredictable, the way football should be. Cristiano has the ball, then Leo does, then it goes out of bounds and then Cristiano has the ball again. The pace is unbelievable, and Leo sometimes cant catch his breath, doesn’t want to catch his breath, because never has he been able to do this with any of his teammates, they can never match his footwork, his unruly thought process, and Leo loves it. He loves how Cristiano doesn’t want to let him win, doesn’t give up when Leo has two goals on him, doesn’t play dirty either. And in the end, when the score is 4-3 in Leo's favor, the two stand, practically hunched over from lack of air, chests rising and falling unevenly underneath matching jerseys and pinnies, almost-smiles permeating their faces, lungs screaming and pleading for the same thing, they share a glance, briefly, a mindset of finding one another for the first time, almost a thank you. And that’s when Cristiano spots them, their teammates and some coaches, standing on the sidelines, some sitting on benches, just watching. Cristiano’s expression falls. The madridistas disperse soon after, barely any words being uttered. Cristiano grabs the ball and leaves Leo standing alone on the pitch, pulling his pinny off in the process and balling it up in his grip.

The locker room is empty when Leo enters, the only noise coming from a single shower blasting in the bathroom next door. He opts to wait to use the nice, fancy god shower at Cristiano’s house instead of the germy madridista shower, which presently contains the Portuguese prince. Since Cristiano is Leo’s ride, he must wait for the other man, and who knows how long that could take. It feels like hours pass and the shower stream still beats down hard in the room adjacent. Leo finds himself standing in the equipment room, face to face once again with the large washers and dryers.

Freshly worn pinnies lie abandoned on the floor, bearing into Leo’s soul, pleading to be picked up and put in the hamper next to the washer. He’s grabbing the variously colored articles when he spots the clean, bright white Real Madrid jerseys on hangers all in a perfect line on a rack. Down the line, number by number, Leo reads the numbers off _1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7…_ until his eyes finally meet it for the first time. _10_. It seems so small, so new among the rest. He drops the pinnies, which fall to the floor quietly. Tentatively, he goes to the jersey, rubbing the material through his fingertips, trying to imagine himself wearing the white, the crest above his heart, kissing it when he scores, but nothing comes to his mind. He tries once more to imagine himself as one of the players in white among a green pitch, but the thought will not manifest itself. He stares at the crest, wishing he would feel something, anything, but his stubborn heart will not budge. And he squeezes his eyes shut and presses his forehead to the fabric and he wants to feel it, wants to know it in his heart, wants to call this place and know this place as a safe place. He wants it to be home. And then a single image flicks passed his eyelids, a single frame and it’s El Clasico and Leo is there, wearing white, standing before the Blaugranas, Cristiano to his right and Benzema to his left and above him and all around him looms a sea of burgundy and royal, all calling out his name as a curse, as if the very name in their mouths makes them want to spit it out and get rid of its taste. And Leo knows what it will feel like to call Madrid home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How was it? Was it okay? Stuff will happen soon, I promise. Feel free to comment and ask questions and whatnot :)


	5. Shot Glasses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was fighting an inner battle about the ending of this chapter, it could have gone two ways and I changed it at the last minute to this because I thought it would be more interesting.

Leo picks out his best suit from his suitcase on the floor by the door (his bags finally arrived from the airport that morning) and he lays it out on the bed, shoes to match. The room is still, dim morning light filtering through fluffy, white clouds, a soft glow leaking into the room, entering from behind drawn curtains. The room is colored a pale cream with white curtains and with all the rooms in the house, Cristiano gave Leo the simplest one, and he finds it perfect. The plain gray carpet reminds Leo of his old bedroom in his old Barcelona home and his chest begins to hurt, the memory of home still so familiar yet far.

He misses his back deck with the two chairs and the little round table that looked across the stretch of backyard daringly. Neymar would come over after training and the two of them would sit in the chairs and talk about nothing for hours and they were happy, _he was happy._ He misses his leather couch and flatscreen by the window in his TV room and the wooden floors of his kitchen and the garden that would grow but never produce anything.

These thoughts come frequently, and sometimes it’s hard to suppress his old life, his yearning to go back and the continuous idea that this is all a dream.

An intruding knock beats against the wood of the door, and before Leo can respond, a fully-dressed Cristiano enters, taking a couple strides through the doorway, eyes focused on putting on his watch and not on Leo.

He begins talking as though he’s irritated, “What are you doing? Come on we’re leaving in ten minutes and you haven’t eaten-,” and when he looks up to see that Leo isn’t even close to being dressed, standing only in a pair of briefs, CR7 to be exact (Leo didn’t have the time to change out of the borrowed underwear yet), he pauses, almost sighs, and for a short moment, his dark brown eyes soften.

Silence overtakes the room.

“Where are your clothes?” Cristiano asks, averting his eyes, busying himself with picking up his borrowed clothes off the floor and placing them in the hamper.

Leo looks to the suit on the bed, but Cristiano doesn’t seem to be watching.

“Get dressed,” is all the taller man says, leaving the room as quickly as he came in, striding out and shutting the door swiftly behind, not looking back.

Leo stares at the clothes that sit idly on the bedspread and the clothes seem to look back at Leo blankly as if they know about just as much as he does about what will happen next.

 

The black Lamborghini rolls up in front of the Santiago Bernabéu Stadium about 45 minutes before they’re supposed to be arriving. Cris turns off the engine of the machine and examines Leo briefly, who begins to get out of the car, but the Portuguese grabs his arm and pulls him back in.

“You can’t go out looking like _that_ , you’ll make a fool of yourself,” Cris explains.

Leo just rolls his eyes and proceeds to attempt to make his escape, but the other man is just as quick, grabbing a hold of his tie gently and tugging him back once again. Their faces are so close now. Leo can see how close of a shave Cristiano managed to get. It’s quite impressive. Cris’ eyes flick up to meet Leo’s briefly, a mischievous smirk forming on his lips before focusing on the tie once more, loosening it with skilled fingers.

“Did they not teach you how to tie a tie in Barcelona?” His voice is soft, light-hearted, a side of him Leo has never seen.

His fingers are gentle, unlike the initial tug that brought him back to where he sits presently, tangling around the fabric, working quickly, fascinated by his work. He finishes by giving Leo a light, good-humored slap on the cheek, a little too hard to be playful, getting out after grabbing his phone from the cup holder and keys from the ignition. Leo follows.

The clouds are darkening, growing thicker, and looming closer, threatening rain. Leo wishes it would. Maybe it will wash away all of his old career, his memories, his love for the city, for the fans, for the club, and bring new life to the seed of his life in Madrid. Cris snaps at the shorter man to keep walking.

The two walk into the locker room, shoulder to shoulder suits swishing as their legs move in time. The dressing room is empty, just like Leo’s thoughts as he lays eyes on the jersey for the first time, nicely folded in a perfect square on his polished wooden seat. Cristiano goes to his locker and Leo to his. The letters stare back at Leo, who refuses to blink, afraid if he does, they will disappear, wash away with the tide. The blood in his veins quicken and race and there’s a certain beauty in the pearly white, the ink black ten, and the impeccably printed _Messi_. For the first time in what feels like months, Leo can’t repress the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

 

Leo almost forgets to keep breathing as he steps out of the tunnel onto the field. Everything is a blur, his stomach feels queasy, nothing seems real anymore. The whistle barely sounds loud compared to the roaring fans. And suddenly, he’s moving, sprinting toward the goal, weaving between defenders as though dancing easily and knowingly through a maze designed for children. When he lets the ball loose, it flies high over the net as if his legs were not aware of his own strength and everything slows back to normal again.

“Leo, what the hell man? I was open,” Cristiano shoves Leo a little, face dark. The ball is back down at the other end now, the Cornella players passing in a deliberate pattern, attempting to penetrate the Madrid defense.

“Are you listening? Do those satellite dishes on the sides of your head actually work or are they just for show?” Cristiano spits out and Leo finally gives him some attention, staring at him with a bored gaze, unimpressed with what he has to offer. He stalks off in the other direction, leaving Cristiano boiling, hands on his hips, furious.

The ball comes back to his feet what feels like minutes later, settling for a short moment as though it wants to stay awhile, wants to get to know Leo’s cleats, wants to memorize that pattern design on the sides and the feel of the grass against its smooth surface. But Leo insists on showing the ball the field, the goalie box, the net. This time when Leo zigzags through the green-kitted Cornella defenders, looking like tall sprigs of grass, he sends the ball ascending above the goaltender’s fingers into the netting. The stadium appears to go completely still for a moment, gazing in a trance, watching as the ball hits twine. And then the voices rise, loud enough to wake the heavens, so loud that they permeate the thick clouds hanging above, creating a leaky crack in the very sky so that rain droplets come pouring down as Madrid players come pouring out to Leo, running and hugging the Argentinian, smiling and laughing, overjoyed and genuinely happy for him. He thinks he might even see Bale display an emotion that isn’t disgust. Cristiano holds Leo the longest, trying to yell a phrase, but the fans’ cries reign supreme. Leo watches his lips move silently.

The rain at first dots the pitch harmlessly, cold and insignificant, but soon, the clouds open up and wring their contents out on the pitch like a damp washcloth. With the jersey, once white and pure, clear and translucent clinging to his skin, slowing him down, he surges down the sideline once again, two defenders standing between him and the goal. Betwixt the uproars of the crowd, the patter of the rain, and the pounding of his heart, Leo hears clean and true, “ _Leo_ ,” from across the pitch. Curling back to the midline, he sees him, tall and momentous, eyes intense, and Leo makes sure the ball lands right at his feet when he crosses it. And when Cristiano scores, he comes swooping into the other man’s arms so easily, as if they’ve been playing together his whole career, scoring goals like this every game. And Cristiano looks down at the shorter man and grins, a smile only for Leo, eyes crinkling at the edges, warm, wet bodies pressed against each other, and Leo feels his heart glow as Madrid slowly becomes home, a place more special than the last, and yet, this still hurts, and Leo lets his arms fall back to his side and smile dissipate.

 

The locker room is loud with excitement, everyone grinning and laughing and talking louder than necessary in order to be heard over the next guy. Leo sits in his locker, head pounding, wondering what the hell just happened. The score still burns in the back of his mind, 3-0, Leo with two and Cris with one, a fairy-tale like entrance for him, and he should be happy, he should forget Barça, they did trade him, didn’t want him anymore, so why does his mind still fight for a club that doesn’t fight for him?

James is standing in front of his locker now, shy smile on his face, ears red, “You played-,” he stutters, “I mean I didn’t expect you not to play this well-,” he shifts his weight from foot to foot, “That’s not what I meant, you always play this well, I was just saying-.”

“Thank you, James,” Leo says gently and the young man looks relieved, as though Leo’s acceptance of his almost compliment made his heart return back to a normal rhythm and stopped his palms from sweating. He smiles, before giving an awkward wave, returning to the other side of the locker room.

Leo feels like the dark clouds followed them through the tunnel when Bale cements himself down next to Leo, an almost smile on his face, stringing an arm around Leo’s shoulder. He doesn’t really say anything at first, wearing that fake sort of sneer on his face, staring at the floor, not awkwardly, but deliberately. Leo feels the discomfort.

“Good match, Messi,” Bale says finally, thumping him on the back forcefully, looking him in the eyes, even though it’s probably very difficult to do so, before standing up and walking as far away from Leo as possible.

The showers come on after that and the kits come off, being strewn all over the place, a collage of numbers and names. Leo follows the others quietly, pulling off his uniform, tossing it into the stall, and making his way to the shower. Afterwards, with a silent mind, he dresses in what he came in, minus the tie, which he shoves in his suit pocket. He searches for a tall Portuguese with tan skin and gelled hair, who appears by his side, grinning, patting Leo on the head like a puppy.

“We’re going out to celebrate,” Cris says, face beaming.

Leo mentally excuses the unsolicited contact, but not the statement, “We are?”

“Of course! That’s what we do, we win, we celebrate, it’s fun,” Cristiano ruffles Leo’s still damp hair like a small, confused child.

He doesn’t say it, but his fallen expression does. _I don’t want to celebrate._

“It will be good, trust me, let’s go,” he squeezes his arm reassuringly.

Leo grabs his phone off the top shelf, reluctantly confirming a, “Okay,” with little luster, lips forming a thin line.

Cristiano’s grin widens.

 

The club is loud, dark, and humid. Los Blancos flood into the VIP area, calling for rounds of drinks, girls flocking and voices rising. Multicolored lights flash about and the smell of alcohol makes Leo almost nauseous. He sits on a stool, back to the bar, watching the scene play out before him. The beat of the music matches the beat of his heart. And then a tall figure appears by his side for what feels like the tenth time that night, suave, charming smile on his face, two drinks in his hands, offering one to Leo.

“I don’t drink,” Leo says politely.

“Neither do I,” Cris winks, “but it looks cool,” he says, placing the two glasses on the bar table.

Leo eyes the clear liquid within the short shot-glass. It looks so harmless and tiny, like it wouldn’t harm him if he downed the whole thing in one gulp, as if it would have the same effect on him as a shot of tap water. He touches a finger to the cool glass. _Everyone underestimated you too, huh, little guy? It’s okay. They didn’t think I could do much, but look where I am today. We’re tough, aren’t we, us little guys always fighting our way to the top somehow. We did it, buddy, we made it._ And for a moment, Leo finds a friend in the shot glass, a petit ray of liquid hope that if this shot glass can make any man fall, than Leo can make any man fall as well, even if the territory he’s battling is uncharted and strange and the other soldiers don’t trust or know him just yet.

“So how are _things_?” Cris asks, making easy conversation.

“Pretty good, except I’ve got this asshole roommate who orders takeout all the time and barges in on my privacy,” Leo smiles slyly, shooting Cris a sideways glance.

“God, that sounds awful, but he can’t be as bad as _my_ roommate, he leaves his clothes all over the place and uses my shower without asking,” Cristiano replies swirling a finger around the rim of his shot glass.

“Oh please, the only _good_ thing about my roommate is he’s a full-time underwear model and part-time professional footballer,” Leo continues.

“That’s so weird because my roommate is a full-time professional footballer and a part-time underwear model,” Cris waves the bartender over and requests for another round of shots, despite the two full glasses in front of them. The bartender complies, but not before eying the glasses warily.

And after that, they talk. It’s easy, for the first time. There’s so much in common that they have, but don’t share just yet, they both know it’s there, the misunderstanding, the inexpressible talent, the love for the game, but they talk about the easy stuff for now. Cristiano asks about his old teammates, what it was like to play for Barça, to grow up in Argentina, what the summers were like there. Leo asks Cris about how he got into modeling, what his life was like before Madrid, who his friends are on the team, and after the fourth round of untouched drinks, eight little glasses all lined up in a row, the two leave their liquor and make their way outside into the chilly night.

This time, when Cristiano rolls down the windows and cranks up the music, he doesn’t protest even the slightest, just watches out into the dark city, lights swirling and gliding passed like fireflies in a summer’s calm dusk. When the car rolls smoothly to a halt in front of the mansion and the music stops abruptly, Leo is close to sleep, bleary-eyed and foggy-headed. He gets out of the car, legs tired from the match all those hours ago, shuffling up the steps, through the open door, barely making it up the stairs to his room. Cristiano follows patiently, quietly, taking off his dress shoes and suit by the door, which he locks silently, making his way up the large staircase with soundless feet.

Leo is at his door, hand on the doorknob, he can feel Cristiano’s eyes on him through the darkness.

“Goodnight, Cristiano,” Leo yawns, turning to face the taller man.

Cristiano’s frame is a monument among the dark hallway; his eyes clear through the opaqueness, expression unreadable. Like a cheetah swift in the darkness, Cristiano pauses for a moment, hungry eyes locked on Leo’s before surging forward, crushing their lips together. It’s fast, sloppy, hands roaming, tongues tangling, Leo’s moaning into Cris’ mouth the only noise throughout the hallway, Cris biting hard on the other man’s bottom lip, pressing Leo hard against the door. When Cristiano breaks the kiss, he looks irritated, angry almost, as if dissatisfied, like he is annoyed that Leo could give him these feelings, excite such a fire within him. He stares for a moment, eyes wide with annoyance, saying nothing, only glaring before storming off in the other direction to his own room, slamming the door. Leo stands alone in the obscurity, mind blank, almost confused, and for a moment, he forgets about Barcelona, about his old teammates, his old life, focusing on a single entity, a single soul, an enemy in unsafe territories: Cristiano Ronaldo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How was it? Was the ending okay? Comments are appreciated a great deal, I love reading what you guys think and if there's anything you guys really want me to include, just ask and I'll try and fit it into the storyline.


	6. I'm Sorry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Agh, sorry this took forever to update! I had a lot going on this and last week, but break is coming up and you KNOW I'll be writing chapters of this fic. I hope this chapter is okay! Enjoy! Let me know what you guys think of it at the end!

Leo doesn’t see Cristiano the morning before the team is expected to leave for Valencia. He wakes up in his borrowed bed to the sound of Maria knocking quietly outside, cooing a gentle, “Good morning, Mr. Leo,” early light sifting through the window evenly, brushing across his face. He yawns and rolls over, checking the fancy wooden bedside clock for the time, eyes focusing on the hands and processing 8:33. _Cristiano is probably already downstairs, already dressed, and has been for at least thirty minutes._ A freshly tailored suit hangs from the back of the doorknob, navy, Maria’s doing, for the first full string of words out of her mouth to Leo was, “What are your dimensions?” And even though Leo denied the favor, Cristiano insisted. He stares at it momentarily, the room still and calm before rolling out of bed and dressing languidly.

The house is quiet as Leo descends down the stairs, dress shoes hitting the steps lightly, entering the breakfast room, surmising that Cristiano will be sitting there, fully clothed, scrolling his phone absent-mindedly, then look to Leo, glare at him for a good five seconds before returning to his phone. But the room is empty. All the chairs around the light-washed wooden table are pushed in to the fullest, as though no one has sat there for years, untouched and unnoticed, even though just yesterday the two of them sat there at opposite ends, wordlessly eating their breakfasts, occasionally glancing up from their plates to stare curiously at the other. The only thing that seems rather out of place is a stack of magazines, looking as though they had been looked through then tossed down with dissatisfaction. Leo goes to them, glancing over the titles quickly, well aware of the time.

Every front cover is similar, a picture of Leo side-by-side to a picture of Cristiano with a title that threatens the both of them, insisting that Leo will replace Cristiano, Leo has betrayed Barcelona, or that Real Madrid will have no use for the Argentine. Leo can picture Cristiano sifting through each article, despising Leo more and more with each turn of the page.

Suddenly, from the main hall, Maria calls out, “Mr. Leo, your ride is here!”

Leo sweeps the tabloids into his arms and proceeds to dump them in the recycling bin before exiting to the foyer to attend to the maid.

“What do you mean? I thought Cris was driving me,” Leo addresses the maid, slinging his duffel over his shoulder fluidly.

“Oh, no no no, Mr. Cristiano left an hour ago with Mr. Sergio. He left instructions that Mr. Iker would drive you to the airport. He didn’t want to wake you, he was very clear,” Maria replies opening the door for Leo and shooing him out before he can protest. And once again, Leo stands face to face with the little red fiat.

 

“Good morning, Leo!” the captain calls out, waving sanguinely, music wafting from the open windows and into the chilly morning air. The sun shines dimly this day, the air snaps at Leo’s cheeks and he curses at himself for not grabbing his scarf still packed in his suitcase by the door. Leo gives Iker a tight, closed mouth smile, wordlessly walking down the steps and getting into the passenger side of the ladybug that is Iker Casillas’ car.

Iker begins the ride by talking about Valencia’s club, the stadium, the pitch, and Leo can only listen for so long before he lets the loud Latin music cover the other man’s voice entirely, making no effort to try and decipher his inscrutable words. And suddenly the car is silent, a question that Leo didn’t bother to listen to hanging in the air tersely.

Iker glances to him briefly, eyes bright. Leo just nods and the goaltender seems satisfied with that.

And then Leo has a question of his own, “How come Cris didn’t drive me?”

Iker’s smile only dips a little and he pauses as though in thought or deciding whether or not to tell Leo the truth and trust him with it. “He said he didn’t want to drive you, said he had something to do and wouldn’t be back in time to pick you up, so he asked me,” Iker’s voice stays even the whole time.

Leo doesn’t talk much after that. He looks out the window at the sleepy, raw stretch of road. His mind wanders and always ends at one point, at the feel of Cristiano’s lips on his in the darkness, his hands on Leo’s body, pressed against his, and Leo pushes the thought away each time.

 

The plane ride feels endless. He tries to read his book, managing only to reread the same sentence five times before shutting it in defeat and tucking it in the seatback pocket. Up a row to his left in the aisle seat sits Cristiano, earbuds in, unknown to Leo. Leo bites his lip, almost in annoyance. _I don’t care. Obviously he doesn’t care, so why should I? I’m just going to forget it ever happened and it will go away._ And this time when Leo pulls out his book, he fights passed the first sentence, blocking out everything around him, his teammates, the hum of the AC above, the cool, artificial breeze running through his hair, tousling it ever so slightly, and the continuous tap of Sergio’s foot against the floor a couple rows up.

Nearing the end of the flight, when Leo is fully wrapped in the story, a tall figure from up a row on the left aisle seat stands, drawing his earbuds from his ears and placing them on his seat, exchanging a couple words with Marcelo in the window seat before proceeding down the aisle. Leo doesn’t look up, well aware that the Portuguese has stopped in front of his row. He flips the page nonchalantly. The seat to Leo’s left remains vacant, a constant reminder that Leo has yet to make a friend. And yet, Cristiano just stands there, as if waiting for, expecting Leo to look up and acknowledge his existence. He doesn’t.

So Cristiano breaks first, dropping down into the empty seat. Immediately, Leo notices how Cristiano fidgets with his watch impatiently, trying to occupy himself, saying nothing until suddenly, he grabs the book from Leo’s hands, shutting it, and sticking it in the seatback pocket. Leo gives Cristiano his gaze. Cristiano’s eyes are dark, intense, face contorted into one of annoyance. Leo bites his lip for a moment, noticing how Cristiano’s eyes flick down, aware of the movement, before returning to Leo’s eyes.

“About last night,” Cristiano says rather coolly, running a hand through his hair calmly.

“Nothing happened,” Leo replies easily.

Cristiano seems annoyed with the answer given, eyes growing dark fast, expression unreadable. Without another word, he gets up, returning to his seat.

Leo grins to himself, plucking the book out of the pocket and returning to his page as if nothing really had happened.

 

“How are you doing?” Neymar’s voice is quiet on the other end of the phone, calm and smooth, and Leo misses him.

He holds the warm phone close against his cheek, pressed to his ear cold from the hollow air they just traversed through. Teammates walk about idly in the hotel lobby, picking up magazines and skimming through them. Iker and Carlo converse with the manager at the front desk and sort out the rooming assignments; Leo already knows he is to spend the night with Marcelo, and he’s rather happy with the decision. A TV echoes through the peaceful lobby, no one pays it mind, not even when the commentator brings up Leo and Cristiano. He’s answering all the tough questions that everyone else is attempting to answer as well: How will they mesh? They’ve only had one game, but their futures look bright together, side by side, a single entity, a powerful force to be reckoned with. Will Leo be loyal to Madrid right away? Or will Barça always have a hold on him?

“I’m alright,” Leo answers, looking around, feeling as though he’s committing some variation of treason by just holding the phone, in his hand that now pumps blood for los blancos, with Neymar on the other end.

“How was your first game? I heard you scored,” Leo can tell Ney is happy for him, can practically see his grin on the other end of the phone, but somewhere in the back of his mind, it sounds strained, as if it’s hard for Neymar to make easy conversation now. The distance is palpable, the two of them icebergs, Ney’s ice still intact with the mainland of Barcelona and Leo’s island drifting all so slowly away from his former teammates’ arena into unexplored Madrid waters. It hurts his chest when he thinks that they’ll never be as close as they were a week ago, as they are now, in a few days, months, weeks, years.

Leo nods and grins, “Yeah, nothing new.”

Neymar laughs.

Across the room Leo catches his eyes, dark and sinful. He speaks no words, just scowls to himself, sliding his cobalt scarf off his shoulders and tucking it in his pocket. Cristiano doesn’t know to whom Leo is talking, but his expression says otherwise.

Leo’s grin falters a bit. His blood runs cold and threatens to stop altogether.

“Hey, Ney, I gotta go,” Leo says flatly, without reason.

The man on the other end sighs. It sounds like he tried to keep the exasperation in but the emotion got the best of him in the end. He seems almost disappointed, not exactly annoyed. “Ok,” Ney says softly, “Bye, Leo, and good luck tonight.”

But Leo isn’t exactly listening, eyes locked on Cristiano’s grimace as the Portuguese watches the TV screen boredly, every word entering his ears and turning up the heat a notch more, and Neymar must notice this too, the silence, and he hangs up before Leo can even think to reply. The line is silent, buzzing absently in his ear, when Leo mumbles a half-hearted, “Bye.” He lets his arms dangle at his sides, shoving his phone in his dress pants’ pocket. It’s cold against his quad, another discomforting feeling to add to his list. And despite all the goals he’s scored, all the awards he’s won, and all the records he’s broken, as he stands in this hotel lobby, they mean nothing to him, empty titles, and he wishes that he could find somewhere to belong fully once again.

 

The voices seem distant, far off like they’re echoing through a tunnel before they reach Leo’s ears. The sun shines but the pitch feels cold, barren, going on forever like an empty frozen tundra, the air hollow, wind blowing across the grassy desert. They wear black kits today, a white dragon draping across the fabric. Leo feels his number burn into his back, push him forward, encourage him to score and move toward the goal even when his mind is foggy and his feet are stone.

No one can score, Iker keeping Madrid in the game when the forwards fail constantly to make anything happen. All of Leo’s shots go wide, and he knows before he even releases it, knows before he even gets the ball, that they will. Cristiano doesn’t cuss at Leo when the Argentine doesn’t pass it to him when he’s open, he just stands in stark silence from across the pitch, staring, expression unintelligible. And it’s unnerving, how their eyes meet and Leo feels the weight of all Cristiano’s unsaid words that never leave his mouth.

Every now and then, Leo’s eyes drift to the stands, to the thousands of fans, a clashing kaleidoscope of orange and white jerseys. He wonders how many of them are his, wonders if they wear it proudly, wonders if anyone even wears one of his at all. A little boy sitting close to the front wears a white Madrid jersey, the _Fly Emirates_ visible even from so far away. The little boy has brown hair covering his eyes almost, a hat tugged over his ears and a scarf covering half his face from the cold, the other half exposed and pink. If Leo were to run over to the sideline right now and offer to sign an autograph for the boy, would the madridista accept or push him away? He squints in an attempt to make out the number on the arm, successfully accomplishing his task and quietly wishing he didn’t. _7_ it reads in bold lettering. Leo turns back to the pitch.

The wind stirs the gentle grass, a whisper across a canyon. Leo waits, waits for the ball to come, watching idly, fingers numb. He tucks his thumbs beneath his under armour, but it does little for the raw, redness. When the ball comes to him, he runs with it, the wind in his face, against the grain, as if nature doesn’t want him to succeed, as if this is wrong, as if he shouldn’t be wearing the black and running in this direction alongside los blancos, doing everything she can to stop him, freeze him mid-step. Leo closes in on the goal box, just crossing the white painted line when a Valencia defender takes out his feet. It feels like he’s falling for minutes and when he hits the pitch, the ref misses the call. Valencia makes their way down to the other side of the field, Leo watching them, getting up slowly, chest burning from the brisk air, lungs pleading for some solace, some comfort. And then Cristiano is at his side, words coming out fast mixed with strings of insults and expletives as Leo brushes the freshly imprinted grass stains from his socks, “What the fuck are you doing? Stop diving, we’ve got a game to play. Figure your shit out, Messi.”

Leo stares at the taller man wordlessly. He feels the rage building within him, but opts not to kick Cristiano’s teeth in, for it will just cause more trouble. The rest of the game, number 7 appears by his side more frequently, causing issues and starting fights that Leo refuses to take a part in. But, it grows harder and harder after each wave and Leo doesn’t know when or where it will happen, but soon he wont be able to hold back his fire. He bites his lip and balls his fists and pushes through it, the wind biting at his cheeks and Cristiano biting at his heels.

In the 87th minute, Bale breaks the tie, making it 1-0 Madrid. It’s an I’m-proving-myself-worthy type of goal, an I-can-compete-with-Lionel-Messi goal, but Leo finds his legs carrying him over to Bale anyway, jumping into his arms, grinning, heart pumping in his chest, a sense of pride racing through his veins. The air nips at his exposed cheeks, gnawing the skin raw. His head feels light, unreachable, like he will never come back down after getting up so high. And then, through the black sea, he meets a pair of eyes, solid brown, venomous, glaring into Leo’s soul. And the pride soon vanishes from him, turning to hatred. In this moment, he feels they truly are rivals, even as teammates, and that they tabloids and media, all these years, have been right, and he hates that and he hates him, and he wishes that that kiss never happened, that he had just disappeared behind a closed door and burrowed beneath fancy covers in an extravagant bed and left Cristiano in the dark.

The win doesn’t feel so sweet. Iker lectures the team about how they can’t give up the intensity and that a one goal lead isn’t enough. Leo stares at his hands, at the lines that swoop across his palms. He focuses on the feel of the fabric against his skin, the texture of the unbreathable cloth, and he yearns to be free, yearns to wear the white, to escape the dragon.

The goaltender continues, “C’mon we’re better than this, better than 1-0, we’re the best team in the world.”

All around, guys start cheering at this and nodding in agreement at their captain’s words.

Leo looks up and across the locker room, through the mass of teammates, sits Cristiano in his own stall glaring at Leo, a challenging expression on his face. He speaks no words, lips pursed, but Leo can almost hear his voice in his head, “What about Barça, Leo? Aren’t _they_ the best team in the world? Huh, you gonna speak up, little man? Go ahead, defend them and see how fast everyone turns on you.”

Leo keeps his mouth shut, jaw clenched, fists clamped tightly.

 

Only the young guys go out to celebrate that night, the majority returning to the hotel to get some decent sleep. Originally, Leo was to room with Marcelo, but Iker stops him in the lobby and informs him otherwise.

“It was Carlo’s decision,” Iker says, relaxed, “He, and I as well, believe that this will speed up the process of finding a connection on and off the pitch, you know, the more time you two spend together, the better you’ll get along.”

Leo almost winces at the word “connection”, and just nods, expression blank. He shoots Iker a forced smile as the goaltender pats his shoulder encouragingly.

The walk up to the third floor feels like eternity, and he does as much as he can to delay his entrance. Cristiano must already know. It would explain his sour behavior and the fact that he fought with Leo throughout the whole match so inconveniently. His gaze scans the fancy white and gold wallpaper. It reminds him of Piqué for some reason, and he doesn’t think twice to text the defender. It doesn’t even cross his mind that they’re on different teams now, and he’s suddenly filled with excitement when his phone vibrates against his thigh within his pocket, notifying a received text only seconds after he sent his first message. He’s sticking his keycard in the little slot when his eyes skim over Piqué’s reply. He grins and almost forgets that he’s rooming with Cristiano. Almost.

The Portuguese is reclined on the near bed, scrolling his phone and simultaneously watching TV, another program analyzing Leo’s trade and Cristiano’s possible reactions. His eyes flick to Leo’s frame as soon as the door opens, like a shark stalking prey. Leo drops his duffle at the door, eyes trained on his phone and Piqué’s message, ignoring the other, living, breathing human being just feet away whose chest rises and falls evenly, analyzing every movement he makes. The room is almost completely dark except for the dim light flooding in from shades drawn and a single bedside lamp. Leo shuffles to his bed, grinning at his phone, saying nothing to Cristiano.

The room is quiet except for the white noise filtering from the TV turned down low.

In the corner, draped over a salmon-colored armchair, rests Cristiano’s suit for the next day: a black, subtle-patterned suit jacket, freshly pressed white casual button-down, and a pair of tailored pants. Two pairs of dress shoes are laid out on the floor next to the chair, as if he couldn’t decide which one he wanted to wear, contemplating if he should match his jacket or belt. The whole scene slightly irritates Leo, but it seems typical.

“They say we won’t be able to adapt,” Cristiano begins. His voice is contained, nothing hostile in his expression either.

Leo’s eyes flick from the chair to his phone screen, attempting to choose a side to occupy his thoughts, never looking to the speaker in any of the situations he pictures.

“They say we’re too different… our styles of play I mean,” Cristiano continues, a hint of annoyance in his tone that vanishes as soon as Leo takes his gaze away from the phone to rest on Cristiano, only out of respect and to ease the tension apparently creeping into his expression. The Portuguese stands to his full height of 6’1” in order to grab more of the smaller man’s attention. It does little because the phone vibrates in his hand and Leo is sucked back in to the electronic device. He doesn’t reply to Cristiano, allowing him to continue with his unnecessary one-sided conversation.

The silence seems to bother Cristiano, who stands before Leo expectantly, waiting for him to finish his text.

“Are you done?” Cristiano almost hisses the words.

No response.

Cris grabs the phone out of his hands and tosses it onto the bed carelessly and they both know that he could have done much worse. He has Messi’s attention now, even though he didn’t really care _that_ much about the phone, only that Cristiano did it.

“What do you want?” Leo looks at Cristiano with a bored stare.

“You don’t seem to care,” Cris is expressionless.

Leo shakes his head, grinning a little.

“What’s so funny,” Cristiano creates a wall between them so quickly it makes Leo’s head spin. He takes an aggressive step forward.

And Leo keeps calm, words flowing easily, yet poisonous, “How you can treat me like dirt when we’re on the pitch, but off the pitch, you want to act like my teammate. That’s pretty hilarious.”

Cristiano grits his teeth, momentarily at a loss for words.

Leo picks up his phone off the comforter and unlocks it. Cris doesn’t hesitate to snatch the device out of his hand and toss it back on the bed. “Maybe if you weren’t so focused on your old team you would have played better and I wouldn’t have had to treat you like dirt,” the Portuguese lashes out. He grabs Leo’s arm, but as soon as he touches the fabric, his grip seems to soften.

Leo stares at the phone on the bed wordlessly. He thinks about picking it up but his reason declines the request.

“You’re not one of them anymore, Leo,” Cristiano’s voice is quiet, gentle with a hint of what sounds like pain, their eyes are locked on each other’s standing so close. Cris’ eyes seem to soften.

“Why can’t you see that? You can never go back,” and Cristiano’s words linger in the air, and they sting, another reminder that Leo didn’t need, didn’t want.

Leo is angry, frustrated, and Cristiano isn’t being fair, isn’t playing by the rules and he hates that.

“Why don’t you try and kiss me again?” Leo’s voice is harsh, unforgiving.

And Cristiano’s expression grows annoyed fast. His face lingers close to Leo’s and almost leans in, but Cristiano has restraint. His heart is pounding hard in his chest and for a moment, he believes that Cristiano can probably hear it.

The Portuguese releases Leo’s arm, observes him with a wary glance momentarily before storming out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

 

Leo doesn’t hear Cristiano come in that night, doesn’t hear the taller man insert his key card into the slot quietly, aware of his sleeping teammate in the bed nearest to the window, doesn’t hear his feet as they pad, against the carpeted floor, to his own bed, doesn’t notice him pause in the darkness and stare, fascinated, at him, for a few moments, noticing his blankets on the floor and doesn’t feel the covers shroud him once more at the hand of his teammate, doesn’t feel his touch, the swipe of his thumb across his cheek, and doesn’t hear the “I’m sorry, Leo,” he whispers in the moonlight pouring from the uncovered window before settling down in his own bed.

The next morning, Leo wakes up overly warm. He can feel the heat in his cheeks, flushed. His head feels groggy, dizzy, as if he didn’t get enough sleep or was constantly waking up in the night. He rolls over, facing away from the window and the sunlight streaming in, to see Cristiano’s bed empty and duffle packed up as if he had never been there at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was it alright? Was it what you guys pictured would happen? I actually wrote a different ending in the beginning, but I thought this was actually a better resolution. Remember, comments are always appreciated and I love hearing from you guys! <33


	7. The Little Lion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all: Lionel (the name) means "little lion"  
> Second of all: O Leãozinho (in Portuguese) means "little lion"  
> Third of all: The verse (in Portuguese) "Gosto muito de te ver, leãozinho" means "I love to see you, little lion"  
> Fourth of all: This is the link to the song that inspired this fic: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_d94WJj6OWQ
> 
> Also, the POVs change a couple times in this chapter (esp. toward the end) so be wary of that. In addition, I sort of incorporated the ladies in there in a way that Leo and Cris were both in relationships prior to the beginning of the season, but it didn't work out. Enjoy and tell me how it was at the end!  
> P.S. sorry this update took longer than I thought it would! It got a little longer than I had anticipated, and I thought of splitting it up into two chapters but I decided otherwise.

Cristiano fixes his polo collar for the fifth time, checking and rechecking his hair in the mirror of the Madrid locker room bathroom. He can hear the quiet rumble of the interviewers from down the hall in the pressroom, thunder before the storm. He’s not _nervous_ , why would he be nervous? He’s been interviewed a thousand times, this is no different, even though this is the first press interview Cristiano has agreed to since Messi’s trade… But he’s not nervous. He smooths the flaps of his dress jacket, it can’t be wrinkled, and runs his tongue over his perfectly white teeth. Iker knocks on the door and motions for him to follow. His heart races in his chest, but won’t let it control him or the interview.

Cris enters through the side door, voices rising as he makes his entrance, Sergio, Marcelo, and Iker trailing a little behind. Cameras click and flash as he passes. He takes the middle chair, sitting tall and watching out at the large mass of people, their expressions mimicking that of a pack of hungry dogs outside of a butcher shop. He holds his breath, focusing on the microphone. Sergio sits to his left, his complexion looking a little pale; the poor guy has never really been the best with the media, Marcelo and Iker to his right, faces mimicking those of calm coolness. The air inside the room feels muggy, yet thin, like he won’t be able to get enough oxygen. The lights above the player’s table are bright, blinding, and almost hurt.

Cris’ eyes flick to the clock in the back of the room. The hour they have to talk slowly ticks to a start and a single voice from the front row grabs his gaze.

The first question is for Iker.

“How is the team atmosphere now with Messi on the team?” The woman who asks the question has below shoulder-length brown hair, curled, obviously not a natural crimp, with just enough makeup to highlight her eyes and lips and make her cheeks look slightly more flushed than her normal skin tone. She wears a blue skirt suit and heels that are higher than necessary for such an occasion. She’s placed herself so close to the front that Cris can discern her eye color, a permeating blue. He wanders to her smile, and it’s menacing almost, as if lying for her is so easy and a typical part of her job, which it probably is. She carries herself with pride, grace, and overall she reminds Cristiano of Irina.

Oh, Irina, she was a goddess, dark brown hair, gorgeous eyes, full lips, curvy body, and a radiant smile. She was so sure of herself and it was beautiful, and Cristiano had loved her, still misses her sometimes, and for a brief moment, he wishes that she hadn’t broken it off last May after the World Cup.

Iker smiles warmly and speaks smoothly to the reporter, “He has brought a lot of composure and poise to the pitch, and I think that’s what we’ve been searching for for a while. He’s definitely been a positive influence on us all and I think in a way, he was the missing link, y’know all the pieces are here now, and we just have to take some time to assemble them and get everyone get back into the routine, because at this point, everything is so foreign with Leo being here that we just have to become familiar with such an essential force as he.” Iker finishes with a satisfied nod. Cris has to hold back the urge to roll his eyes. All Leo has added to the team is an awkward silence and discomfort that enters the room whenever he does.

From the back of the room stands a round man with a tan face. His smile is broad and fake and his eyes crinkle around the edges sincerely but the whole expression seems forced as though he doesn’t actually want to be standing here right now with a recording device in his hand asking questions. He addresses the man to Cris’ left, “Sergio, how is your current relationship with Messi, especially after you two have faced each other so many times in close quarters, going head-to-head in previous El Clasicos?”

Ramos looks sick. His hands are clammy, leaving marks on the table, fiddling with his watch uncomfortably, eyes flicking everywhere, referring to the clock constantly. His voice is scratchy when he talks, stuttering through his words, “Uh, it’s um, getting to where w-we want it to be. He’s uh, y’know, really a great individual and I-I-I think we’ll b-be able to use him for a l-lot because uh he’s such a versatile player. Like Iker said, um, it will t-take some time to build our r-relationships with h-him because he’s st-t-till so new and diff-fferent to us.”

On the far right side of the room, a young man sharply dressed in a dark brown, well-tailored suit finally addresses the Portuguese, “Cris, what was your first impression when you heard that Lionel Messi was coming to Madrid?”

Suddenly, his throat feels like it’s closing and his mouth goes dry. The air really does feel like it’s leaving the room and he looks to the clock, still 50 minutes left to kill. He looks to the reporter’s face, expectantly watching him, and grins.

“I was, uh, definitely surprised. I don’t think for a second that anyone expected Messi, of all people, to be traded, because uh, he’s won so many awards and has done so much for Barcelona,” He pauses, reminding himself that they are teammates now and he can’t say anything that could embarrass the club, “But, I’m glad that he’s here now.”

The reporter glances up from his notepad at those words, raising his eyebrows almost in disbelief.

“Well, I wasn’t when I found out, but I am now,” Cris says quickly, slowly losing his grip on the situation. Marcelo kicks him under the table and Iker shoots him a “be nice” glare from two seats down.

_It’s true. I didn’t even know the little flea was here until I got back. What do you expect from me? Should I have thrown a party? Held a parade? Give me a break._

The reporter is scribbling on his pad furiously and it’s unnerving. He hates that he has to lie. Why would he be excited to hear that Lionel Messi was traded to his team? He hates him, wants him as far away from Madrid as possible unless it’s El Clasico, a time where Cris can publicly quench the rumors that Messi is better than him.

A woman in the middle of the pack, stuck between two male reporters who wave their hands in the air, shoots out of her seat, speaking with determination, “Do you think Messi will replace you as a leader and goal scorer on the team?”

Cris looks to Iker, who seems taken aback by the question as well. She might as well have asked, “Do you think Messi is better than you?” Which some have done in the past and Cris has answered reluctantly every time.

It’s only Cristiano’s second question of the hour, yet he is ready to give up on being supportive of his newest teammate, “No. And I don’t think Messi’s trade has anything to do with my performance. I think I’ll play the same, if not better, with Messi on the team. I realize he is very good, but no one is going to replace anyone, that’s not how a team works.”

He leans back in his chair. The reporter sits down wordlessly and the room is still. A single click of a camera can be heard from the left side of the room.

Preoccupied with a hangnail, a voice permeates the stiffness, “What is it like playing with your greatest rival? How is the competition between you two?”

Cris doesn’t look up, finds no need to, speaking immediately, yet not knowing where this answer is coming from, “The whole rival thing is just a myth, we’re just trying to win for our clubs at the end of the day, and it just so happened that Leo was on a rival team and has similar talents as myself and all of the sudden everyone thinks we want to ruin each other. It’s not that complex. I think we’ll be able to push each other, whether we want to or try to or not, it will just happen, it’s just normal competition among teammates. Nothing else.” And Cris thinks that he gets his point across without stretching the truth too much.

Someone asks Marcelo if he is happy to have Leo as his teammate, but Cris isn’t listening. This whole idea was terrible. He already knows that the fans aren’t happy with the trade, and shares their displeasure.

His mind refers to an ESPN report he saw a few days back in Valencia. Iker had just told him he’d be rooming with Leo when he unlocked their room, clicked on the TV, tossed his bag on the bed, and began to unpack. His mind was racing in a hundred different directions and he couldn’t find an escape from the Argentinian who constantly reminded himself of his weaknesses, what he lacks. The TV burst to life with voices. _“I think he’ll never strictly be loyal to Madrid.” “A player who’s lived that long in Barcelona might not be able to transfer that devotion to the opposite organization, it’s as simple as that.”_ _“Messi won’t do well in Madrid with Ronaldo there.”_ Cris had glanced up from choosing between a red and navy tie for the flight home to skeptically observe the screen. There were fans speaking. Madrid fans. He continued his sorting without another thought. _“Messi shouldn’t have been traded, our chairman is an idiot.” “We’re going to be shaking our heads when he goes down in the history books as a legend wearing the Fly Emirates’ sponsored kit.” “Leo Messi will never be a madridista, and I think he knows that Barcelona will always be his home.”_ Cristiano glared at the screen, this time the Barça fans spoke and for a brief moment, he felt bad for Leo, with both Barça and Madrid fans turning him to the side.

Why would Barça trade Leo? It doesn’t make sense, he was a positive entity for their team, never brought any drama, and was seen as a god by the fans and organization alike. Did they not want that anymore? Was Leo holding them back? Madrid doesn’t need a Lionel Messi when they have a Cristiano Ronaldo, the two won’t mesh together. Cris understands his own arrogance, his confidence, but doesn’t understand Leo’s humility, his poise. They’re rivals for a reason, they’re not meant to be on the same team or to pretend that they _want_ to play alongside each other when they were born to tear each other apart.

Someone flicks Cris’ arm. It’s Sergio, cheeks flushed red, embarrassed, eyes clear. He nods toward a young man standing up with a recording device, looking somewhat uncomfortable, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Cris glances up to the clock on the wall. There is only a minute left until he is free, his mind eating away the majority of the time while his teammates answered questions in his mental absence.

“I’m sorry, what was the question?” He asks quickly, the big hand slowly listing down the seconds.

“How do you think Leo will do at the next El Clasico?” The young man asks, not making eye contact, normally something that Cris hates, but right now he could care less, eyes trained on the big hand ticking passed the 4.

 _What kind of a stupid question is that?_ The minute ticks down oh so slowly, rounding the 5.

He sighs and begins into the microphone, responding without further delay, “I don’t know. That’s something you’ll have to ask him and I’m certain you will have plenty of opportunities to do so because I’m pretty sure he plays for this club now and will be spending a little more time in this very room than he did when he played for Barcelona.”

He finishes, standing and walking out the side door he came in just as the big hand crosses the 12 on the clock in the corner, cameras flashing and clicking as he leaves, fists clenched, teeth gritted.

As he makes his way through the hall and outside the arena, fans are lined up, cheering and waving, taking pictures with their phones, asking for autographs. Cristiano eyes them, pausing momentarily to scribble his name on the back of a jersey for a young fan. He stares, wide-eyed at the name on the back of the white fabric, breath caught in his lungs. _10 Messi_ it reads. It seems so unreal, so alien to his eyes and it’s almost incomprehensible even now. He wonders when it will ever look normal, when it will look typical and standard without a second glance, when Leo will mix in, and that time seems so far from now, almost unreachable compared to where they are now. Cristiano departs to his car after that, shaking the image out of his mind.

 

Leo sits in the downstairs sitting room, the TV, which practically covers the whole wall, playing quietly in the background. The couch he rests on is black leather and feels like it hasn’t been used since Cristiano bought it from the store. Fancy white pillows adorn the space between every seam, matching the color of the blanched carpeting. On the walls, framed jerseys loom and although Cristiano is out of the house, it feels as though he is still present, watching Leo’s every movement, hearing his every intake of breath. He thinks back to Neymar’s parting present and cringes, for he is seemingly no better than any random Madrid fan with a Ronaldo jersey. It lies still untouched in his suitcase by the door, a ghost haunting and cursing his clothes.

The TV returns from a shampoo commercial to the program, which Leo wasn’t even watching anyway. When he recognizes it as an interview, he grabs the remote, about to change the channel, when Cristiano’s voice floods through the speakers confident and smooth. His finger stalls on the “change channel” button, eyes glued to the screen, suddenly interested. The interview looks fairly recent, around the time of the World Cup or last year’s Ballon d’Or ceremony possibly. Cris wears a casual white button down and a pair of what looks like designer jeans, a diamond earring studded in each ear.

He speaks easily, calmly as if it is no burden on him whatsoever to answer redundant questions, his temperament calm and collected. His voice is even, no arrogance in his words, never talking about himself, only his teammates and the organization as a whole and Leo is almost irritated with this depiction of Cristiano Ronaldo. His hair is still gelled, clothing still upscale, accent still accusing, yet he is polite and confident without the selfishness. Leo bites his bottom lip, puzzled.

“Cris, how do you think you have played this season so far?”

He pauses, grinning slightly from the side of his mouth, in thought before speaking, “Uh, I think I’ve done pretty well, but my teammates have helped me a lot, I wouldn’t be where I am today without them, and along those lines, I believe I can always do better. I don’t think I’ll ever be satisfied with my accomplishments.” He chuckles good-naturedly at the end, lightening the mood. His humility almost stuns Leo.

He doesn’t remember when their rivalry first began, it has always been this way, always the little guy vs. the big guy, the Argentine vs. the Portuguese, Lionel Messi vs. Cristiano Ronaldo. Sometimes it was easy to ignore since they lived in very different spheres and occupied their minds with their separate clubs, until an interviewer brought up the other or El Clasico came around the corner. Other than that, they didn’t speak each other’s names and their minds were engaged elsewhere, the rivalry hidden in the thoughts of their fans and critics.

“How do you think Leo Messi has done so far this season?” The reporter asks with a sly side-smirk.

Cristiano’s grin barely falters, the light remains in his eyes, not like they react now when Leo presents himself before Cristiano, the Portuguese responding with a snarl and a hostile, dark glare. But back then, when this interview was filmed, Cristiano had hope, had no reason to ever believe that Leo would enter his sphere, his domain, cross the line between rival to teammate. “I think Messi is on the same page as me, uh, he’s obviously done pretty well for himself and for Barcelona, but he’d probably say the same thing, that he could always do better. Uh, he’s a solid player all around and he’s definitely always been on the same level as me as far as performance goes, so I’m not surprised he’s doing so well.” And _there’s_ the arrogance that Leo failed to recognize until now.

The reporter asks another question, but Leo’s phone vibrates on his thigh, urgent and excited. He quickly mutes the TV and beams at the name on the screen when he sees it’s his father. They haven’t spoken in weeks, ever since a few days before Leo’s trade, when they fought about the Ballon d’Or… or was it about Leo’s most recent broken record… he can’t remember which, it has been so long since he has heard his father’s voice.

“Hola papi!” Leo grins against the phone, “How have you been?”

His father says nothing, probably doing something else in addition to talking to his son, quiet shuffling noises carrying over from the other line.

He sighs before replying, “Leo, what is this I’ve heard about you not scoring in the last match against Valencia?”

_Does he not know? He has to know, he knows more about my affairs than I do…_

“What? No… I mean yes I didn’t score but that doesn’t matter I was-,” Leo is almost nervous to break the news to his father who said that Barcelona would be where Leo was to spend the rest of his career.

His father cuts in calmly before Leo can finish his sentence, “Every game matters, Leo, every _goal_ matters, you can’t have that type of attitude especially since the Ballon d’Or ceremony is only a month away.”

Leo stares at the silent TV. Cristiano is grinning again, lips moving, forming sentences he wishes he could hear instead of his dad’s.

“I got traded. To Madrid. How could you not know this?” Leo speaks firmly, quietly, the way his father taught him to speak, concisely, laconically, leaving the listener to mull over his speech when they’re on their own, making breakfast or in the shower, wondering its meaning.

“Mi hijo, _of course_ I knew this. I knew this months ago, just after the World Cup actually, before the season started, during the little vacation break, remember? The vacation you took to that little Italian Island with that girl, what was her name, that I told you not to go on? Hmmm?”

“Antonella,” Leo replies.

“Ah yes… Antonella… Nice girl, what ever happened to her?” His father asks as though he is actually interested.

“We-,” Leo begins, but his father continues otherwise.

“Anyway, it was me, the new coach Enrique, and chairman Bartomeu all sitting around a table, looking at our options and what would be best for you and for the club and we just thought that Madrid would be a better fit and we called up Carlo and their chairman and the decision was made within a couple days. And so three months later, there you are, on a plane to your new club. It’s very simple,” he sounds relaxed, as if this isn’t a big deal, as if Leo didn’t have to pick up his whole life and throw it in the fire and start over.

“Why?” Leo can only think of one word to describe his emotions at this point. No one is explaining anything and it’s completely and utterly frustrating. He left Barça, he left Neymar, he left _everyone_ to come to a city that doesn’t accept him and a team that doesn’t appreciate him and live with his rival in this big stupid house that he doesn’t even want to be staying in.

“What do you mean why? It was the best option, mi amor,” his father replies.

_“Why?”_

“Leo, did you read your new contract?” His father demands impatiently.

Silence. He hadn’t. He didn’t even know that was an option. He just grabbed all his stuff without protest and followed blindly the instructions given to him. Why didn’t he stop for a moment and check to see what he was getting into?

“You didn’t, did you?” His father’s voice sounds tired, as if this whole conversation is completely redundant and has sucked the life out of him.

“But I had just signed a new contract in May? How could it have been reversed?” Leo stares at the TV once again, Cristiano is using hand motions, vividly describing something that the reporter is nodding his head in agreement with.

“You didn’t read that contract either, did you?” His father’s voice sounds distant, the miles between them palpable.

Silence once again. He had read the original contract, the secondary contract, but his father made so many changes and edits that by the end of it, he didn’t reread the whole 200 page final document, signing his name on the line at the bottom of the last page.

“You had signed for an open-ended contract that could, and would later be, negotiated again in the summer,” he says easily.

“And what did this new contract say?” Leo asks; he can feel the anger rising up in his chest. This is unfair.

“So you admit, you didn’t read it?” The man on the end of the line asks.  Leo feels like he doesn’t even know him anymore.

“WHAT DID IT SAY?” Leo raises his voice. He tried to be rational, tried to stay calm, but because of this contract, his father’s decision, his life has snapped in two like a twig, the smaller half in Barcelona, the bigger half in Madrid.

This time, the opposite end is silent.

“It was about money, wasn’t it?” Leo says quietly.

Silence from the other end.

“It was,” Leo is practically whispering at this point, horrified.

Silence still.

“How much?” His voice is barely audible, even to himself.

No answer. And it's terrifying. 

“HOW MUCH?” He raises his voice, doesn’t even care if Maria can hear him from the third floor where she is ironing his pants for their game tomorrow.

“100,” is all his father says.

“100 what? 100 thousand? That’s not even-,” Leo begins but is cut off for what feels like the tenth time today.

“Million,” his father finishes.

Silence on both sides now.

“Madrid is paying me 100 _million_ -,”

“Double what Barcelona was paying you,” His father interjects yet again.

And the anger returns. He doesn’t care about the money, it was _never_ about the money, it’s about the game, the fans, the club. His head feels woozy, faint, as if he could pass out. His breathing grows shallow, the air feels thin, and the chills that spread up and down his body feel like tiny ants are running across his skin wearing icy cold sharp metal cleats.

_My own father sold me out for 100 million._

“Now, Leo, don’t you see why every goal matters?” He says and his voice sounds evil and wicked even though it hasn’t changed since the beginning of the phone call.

His heart clenches in his chest.

“I’m your _son_ , how could you do this?” Leo chokes out, voice thin.

“Yes, mi hijo, you’re my very talented, very _special_ , little Leo, and I didn’t think you were worth only 50 million,” He says, and Leo can tell he’s smiling on the other end of the phone, that he meant it to be a compliment but it came out as ‘Leo, you are like an expensive cashmere cardigan being sold for only 50 million when your delicately hand-woven fibers are really meant to be sold for 100 million and bought by some wealthy bachelor to be worn until your seams are weak and your color has faded from your fabric and only then will you be pulled out of the drawers and be hung in the back of the closet, once admired and loved by many and now secluded and ignored just like the rest of the high-quality cardigans, so we’re going to pull you out of Dolce & Gabbana and exclusively sell you through Gucci. End of story’.

“I’m not _worth_ anything, I’m a person, and this is _wrong_ ,” Leo blurts out.

“Mi amor, it is only wrong because you didn’t read your contracts,” His father says and Leo can’t take it anymore and hangs up, chucking the phone across the room, letting out a loud cry of frustration. _How could this have happened?_

“Are you okay, Mister Leo?” Maria calls from upstairs.

“No, I’m not okay, Maria,” He whispers to himself, eyes drifting to the TV screen where Cristiano has finished his interview and shakes the reporter’s hand, grinning like he’d just settled on a new contract himself.

 

Cristiano flicks the radio on immediately as he steps inside his dark gray Porsche to block out the noise of the fans and his own thoughts. Quickly, he starts the engine and floors the gas pedal, speeding out of the parking lot and onto the main road. The sky is muddled with clouds, thick and fluffy ones, seemingly harmless and innocent, yet could produce a dangerous storm at any moment, just like Lionel Messi on the pitch.

The wind pulses and rhythms against the windows as he accelerates down the smoothly paved road, running an unsteady hand through his hair, eyes darting back and forth uneasily on the horizon as if a big chunk of hail could beat down on his windshield at any moment.

Ronaldo always does his best, never has an off day, eats well, works out, plays hard, does everything right, yet in the end Messi always does it better without even trying and he doesn’t even care. After he broke the La Liga scoring record, it was like he wasn’t surprised, like it was completely normal for him to do so, expected of him almost. But, when Cristiano wins the world’s top goal scorer, it’s a big deal and everyone is surprised, almost taken aback like, “Oh Cristiano won something? Good for him! That’s very exciting!” But for Leo it is, “He won that award _again_? That’s cool.” And Cristiano hates that because even though they’re supposed to be equal, Leo is always on top and it’s normal for the Argentine, grow accustom to taking his throne above Cristiano’s.

The car rolls to a halt in front of a red light. Cris taps his finger on the steering wheel negligently to the beat of the music that absently fills the car. The light is abnormally long, the time on the pedestrian crossing clock ticking down slowly even though there is no one in sight, car or person, as if the world is still asleep. His eyes wander to the left where small shops stand unoccupied and dark, until the one closest to the curb catches his gaze. It’s a small Adidas equipment and apparel store, ivy crawling and snaking its way up the sidewall, posters and pictures of footballers in the window, and he even spots an action shot poster of himself from the World Cup in the top right corner of the window. But, on the left window, covering the majority of the space, is a massive headshot of none other than Lionel Messi. Stubble growing in on his jaw, mouth closed into a thin, challenging line, and those _eyes_. Oh those eyes, always so concentrated, solely on football, never on anything else, stare at Cris from across the street, opaque, and determined, and he envies Leo’s focus, his finesse, and when the light turns green, he charges forward, tearing his eyes from the poster.

As the Porsche blazes down the frozen road, Cristiano cranks up the music louder, louder than the hum of the engine, louder than the howling wind, louder than his logic. The current song comes to an end a new one replaces it, a familiar song, a Portuguese song about a little lion, “O Leãozinho”, one he has heard many times before, with a warm melody and soft guitar strings in the background that remind him of home, of his little patch of grass he called a backyard, of the little rectangular goal he painted on his shed, and of the open kitchen window from which the song flooded from and carried into the humid summer afternoon air. His chest feels tight, mind foggy as the words enter his head.

_“Gosto muito de te ver, leãozinho”_

The lyrics hit him like a rock. He grips the steering wheel harder, leather pressing against his skin uncomfortably. He turns onto his street and down his long driveway, shutting off the engine and sitting in the car until the song ends.

As he gets out of the Porsche, his mailman, Josef, is walking down the steps from the side mailbox near the door, waving and smiling at Cristiano, “Halo, Cris!”

Cris grins at the young man, returning Josef’s gesture.

As the mailman passes, he says, “Hey, not to alarm you, but there’s a random guy chilling in your living room. He might be an intruder or something.”

Cris’ expression falters a little.

_Oh that’s just Leo, my rival/teammate/frenemy don’t worry about him, Josef, he’s harmless unless you try and take the ball or an award away from him, then he’ll travel across the continent and live in your house and play for your club and go everywhere you go so you wont be able to take the ball or his awards away from him anymore._

“Thank you, Josef,” is all Cris says, unlocking the front door and entering without another word.

The “intruder” is reclined on the coach in the sitting room, blank expression painted on his face, saying nothing to Cris when he enters, but watching him as he does. Cristiano rolls his eyes and proceeds upstairs, he didn’t want to talk to Leo anyway.

 

Leo doesn’t remember when it happens, but in the midst of staring at a muted TV screen and contemplating whether or not to get up and retrieve his freshly cracked-screen phone from the corner of the room where it lies, depleted, screen lighting up every now and then from calls from his father, he falls into a light sleep on the couch. He wakes up suddenly, unnaturally, shaken awake by a bothered-looking Cristiano who appears half interested in his phone, half interested in Leo.

“Get dressed, we’re going out,” he says.

“What?” Leo replies groggily; he checks outside through a nearby window. The evening has set in by now, possibly 5:30, the sun slowly sinking beneath the trees out front, shedding orange light across the fall scenery.

“We’re getting dinner in town,” Cristiano states as if Leo doesn’t have a say in this matter, as if it is written in his unread contract that he is to go to dinner with Cristiano without objection whenever and wherever the other man pleases.

Leo thinks about objecting for a moment, but Cristiano wears a face of stone, raising a challenging eyebrow to an unspoken protest and he keeps quiet.

 

Leo stares at the candle flickering in the dimly lit restaurant placed perfect center on the red satin tablecloth. Quiet music plays in the background, waiters and waitresses mull about with fancy bubbly water, and the entire place has a calm, respectable air about it. Everyone is dressed very sharply, the men wearing expensive, radiant-looking suits and ties, and the ladies with their elegant dinner gowns and fur shawls and coats. A single white rose, freshly cut, rests nonchalantly within a petit vase to the left of the candle, proud and resilient despite the lack of water within the vase. It reminds Leo of Cristiano, arrogant, dismissive, withstanding, and he holds back the urge to pluck off its petals. The tension at the table is palpable, Cristiano won’t stop _glaring_ at him, like he somehow did something wrong. Leo raises his eyes from the flower, and Cristiano narrows his eyes.

 

Cristiano hates this. _Why did I do this in the first place?_ It’s not like they’re going to be recognized, that is not his fear, for this is the most exclusive restaurant in Madrid, only the wealthiest and highest ranked on the totem pole come to such a place, and they wouldn’t be the type to run up and ask for an autograph, too much dignity and self-respect to deign to reveal even a patch of weakness before another person, even if those people are Lionel Messi and Cristiano Ronaldo. No one stares at them, minding their own caviar and lobster and steaks, even if they are aware of the footballers’ presence, they don’t make it obvious.

Cristiano watches Leo’s hands, they fiddle with the utensils, fingers running up and down the silver of the fork, almost uncomfortably. _Why are we here? This was such a stupid idea; he’s not even interested._ But Cris needs to be a good teammate, needs to welcome Leo, to make him want to stay, to make him want to be a part of the team, to make him feel at home. That’s what a good teammate does.

Or at least that’s how Iker described a good teammate.

“You can’t be a dick, Cris,” is what Iker had said, “I know he’s not your favorite person in the world, but you’ve still got to treat him like family, because that’s what he is now.”

But, Leo looks so _bored_ , eyes elsewhere, examining the room, staring at the table, and Cris momentarily forgets Iker’s words, “Is this not good enough for you?” he blurts out in a quick burst of aggravation, “Not good enough for the high and mighty Lionel Messi?”

Obviously his parents didn’t raise him right if he can’t appreciate such hospitality on Cristiano’s part.

Leo brings tired eyes to focus on Cristiano, speaking quietly, reserved, “No, I like it very much, actually. Thank you for bringing me here,” is all he says.

And then silence overcomes the table, the music overtaking unspoken words momentarily, and Cristiano contemplates his own upbringing.

“So what did you do today?” Leo asks boldly before taking a sip of his water. His voice is soft, modest, yet full of disguised force. It is the complete polar opposite of the tone and manner which Leo has possessed following the first few days after his arrival when he was so full of fire and indifference. Violet bags of sleep-deprivation sweep under his eyes and the poster enters his head. He seemed a threat in the window, challenging Cristiano’s titles, his spot on the team, his entire being, and as he sits before the Portuguese, he feels no danger to any of those things.

He thinks back to when he kissed Leo, how the smaller man moaned, pulled him closer and even in the dark corridor, he could see the blush spreading across his cheeks when he broke the interaction. It was impulsive, a need to feel, nothing else, Cristiano convinces himself. He refuses to let his subconscious think that it was anything other than the fact.

“Nothing,” Cristiano mumbles into his own glass, analyzing its contents before taking a suggestive gulp of the smooth liquid, “I’m assuming you did little as usual today?” Cristiano counters.

Leo’s expression seems to fall a bit, and he averts his eyes, pausing for a moment, before saying an almost inaudible, “Yeah, something like that,” taking another sip of his water.

Cristiano is almost angry when Leo says this. This. _This_ is the man Cristiano begrudges for his skill, his poise, his finesse. _This_ is the supposed best footballer in the world and here he sits before Cristiano, quietly speaking his answers from behind a glass of Pellegrino as if the mere task of forming a response is a difficult, insurmountable one, mind clearly elsewhere, and it bothers Cristiano because he’s not supposed to be heavyhearted, he’s supposed to be cunning and crafty, he’s supposed to be _the flea_ , quick and bothersome, cunning and experienced with an artistry from another world, and right now, he is nothing but human and Cristiano hates that. This is dangerous, unhealthy, and it helps no one, _in fact_ , it will end up hurting the _team_ , hurting football as a sport _,_ and most of all hurting Cristiano and their rivalry, because no one else can keep up with him, none other than Lionel Messi poses danger to his title to his awards, and without the competition, then what’s the point?

The resentment, and a slight, quick and faltering sense of fear, builds in his chest, “What is wrong with you?”

Leo brings his eyes up from the tablecloth to say a confused, “What?”

“Where is your drive? Where is the spark?” Cris spits out, disgusted.

Leo stares at Cris blankly, unblinking.

The words Cris speaks are harsh and peevish, “I thought I knew you, even when I didn’t, I still thought I did and _this_ ,” Cristiano motions toward the Argentine, “ _this is not you_.”

“How could you know me? You know nothing of me or my life,” Leo replies with some animosity flickering in his accent, but still not the same bitterness as a couple days ago, not even the same as yesterday.

“True, but I know enough to see that you need to learn when your humility is useless and pride is imperative,” Cris replies.

Leo rolls his eyes.

Cris drops his voice, “Where’s your _confidence_ , Leo?”

The smaller man glares when Cris uses his name.

“Bashfulness is for the weak of heart. Don’t you ever look yourself in the mirror and think to yourself ‘damn I look good’?” and when Cristiano says this, it sounds as though he is luring Leo over to the dark side of the spectrum in his own ears.

Leo looks almost furious. _Almost_ , “No, but I can tell that you do.”

Cristiano grins at Leo’s spitefulness, “I don’t know how they did things in Barcelona, but in Madrid, we play as lions, not lambs.”

Leo winces when Cristiano brings up Barcelona. He still isn’t over that city yet, and that annoys Cristiano even more. They _traded_ him, didn’t _want_ him anymore, didn’t _need_ him anymore, so why does he still care? He shouldn’t still care. And an emotion, something like jealousy, pulses through his veins, mixed in with his blood, that Barcelona will always be his sanctuary, his solace, and Madrid will always be hostile soil, never a place to belong to. Deep down inside, he fears that Leo will never be proud of Madrid like he was proud of Barcelona, still loves his old club too much to give all his sentiment to his new one.

“Maybe that’s why everyone is so selfish here… They’ve got the one-track, single-mindedness of lions and not enough of the reservation of lambs,” Leo hisses.

“Not everyone, just me,” Cristiano says easily, motioning the waitress over for the check even though they haven’t ordered anything yet, but it’s clear that Leo isn’t in the mood to eat, and Maria already made dinner for Cris while the Argentinian was passed out on the couch.

He signs the check as if he’s signing an autograph for a swooning fan, winking at Leo in the process. Leo wrinkles his nose and shoots a distasteful dirty look, eyes still empty and disappointed after the fact.

And Cristiano realizes even though he is loved by so many, looked up to by so many, praised by so many, Leo doesn’t esteem himself, doesn’t think he’s good enough; he can always be better, always score more goals, always win more awards, and he will never be the best because he doesn’t see himself as the best, doesn’t have the confidence that Cristiano has, doesn’t have the arrogance that Cristiano has, and although Cristiano resents him for his skill, his talent, he pities him for his modesty. And what Leo lacks, he makes up with talent and what Cristiano lacks, he makes up with self-assurance.

If Leo Messi is really here to stay, is really in Madrid for the long run, then Cristiano must be willing to work for this concrete part of the team, to fight for this rival of his, to take the venom out of the wound that Blaugranas bit into Leo’s skin. Cristiano looks into those unclear eyes, obscured with mixed desperation, and thinks, _Iker would be proud of me right now_ , grinning to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How was it? Sorry to all of you who wanted me to keep Leo's POV for the whole story, but I just couldn't stay away from Cris ;). Please, please, please let me know what you guys thought about it, I was seriously doubting myself the entire way! Already writing the next chapter. Happy holidays!


	8. Of Basel and Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yayy quick chapter updates! This one is short but I wanted to post it anyway enjoy :)

The snow falls gently, coating the pitch like a thin layer of icing on a cake, disguising the green, wrapping the sprigs of grass in a blanket of hibernation. The air is bitter, stark, sweeping the flakes off coarse as they drift softly to the earth. They melt against Leo’s cheeks and stick to his eyelashes, occasionally finding space where his jersey doesn’t meet the back of his neck, pressing frosty kisses to his skin as he watches the Basel offense make their way down the sideline. Each step he takes leaves an opening in the white, exposing the green below, reminding him that some things are only temporary. He can see his breath before his face, a white cloud of mist, the only visible proof that he’s still alive in this cold. Lips chapped, nose red and runny, he tucks his fingers still further underneath his underarmour as yet another blast of wind batters the Argentine. Leo squints through the blizzard to make out the white sphere that the Basel forwards no longer posses. Beneath his kit, chills run along his skin, hidden to the world, but a constant battle to Leo. He looks over to Cristiano and Benzema, jumping and jogging in place to keep their legs pumping blood. Leo paces. The snow falls more thickly now.

The score reflects nothing of their on-pitch combat, a stark white 0-0, and despite the many chances on both sides, neither has anything to show for it.

The madridistas wear their patented color today, blending in to the whiteout around them, reverse ninjas in the afternoon, the color of the clouds, the color of the pitch, and the color of the ball, which Leo has yet to touch since the first half.

From the other end of the wall of powder, voices rise and feet pound the wintry earth like elephants escaping men with rifles. Figures burst through the opaqueness and Leo’s legs awaken at the threat, running against the direction of the wind, the snowflakes hitting the fabric of his kit like cannonballs attacking an enemy ship. James has the ball, his face red, eyes watery from the biting gusts. The fans roar over the sound of the blasting currents and he fights to focus on the younger man’s voice as he calls out Leo’s name. Everything feels like it’s going in slow motion: Leo’s feet hitting the pitch, turning his head to receive the pass from Rodríguez, and taking two long strides before looking up a split second too late. The Basel defender running straight toward him, a massive rock of a man, doesn’t seem to be looking for the ball between all the white confusion, and collides with Leo full on, sending him backward, tripping, tumbling to the earth. Leo’s heart pounds within his chest, lungs plead for oxygen, and the snow continues to fall and melt against his skin. His mind races, thoughts all over the place. The Basel kits are almost the same colors as Barcelona’s, and he wants to find some solace in them, strives to do so, but finds no relief, the colors no longer bringing forth the pride and comfort that they used to.

A hand extends to him and the play has seemed to stop as a scrum breaks out, Madrid players shoving Basel players and vise versa. The calloused, cold hand belongs to Ramos who wears an expression partially of genuine concern, partially questioning whether or not he should be helping Leo up, an internal battle raging on within the Spaniard.

Voices of different accents and languages mix, all producing expletives and profanity and insults in their native tongues, and despite the barrier that the Tower of Babble creates, points get across quite easily as: “Don’t touch him, he’s one of us.” “He’s not one of you, you hypocrites, he’s just as much a part of your team as we are.” And for the first time, the madridistas fight for Leo and a blockade breaks down within Leo as he watches the Omni-poised Karim Benzema spit out cusses like mouthwash, as James Rodríguez holds back a guy two heads taller than him, as Cristiano Ronaldo, his past rival, shoves one player to go after the guy who ran Leo over. Even Iker made the trip from across the field in the inclement weather to defend #10.

Ramos wraps an arm around Leo’s shoulder as they watch the colors blend and quarrel.

“What happened?” Leo asks, eyes on Marcelo as he rips a Basel player off of Kroos.

“After that number 13 clipped you, Cris came out of nowhere and practically dropped the guy,” Sergio grins.

Before them, Bale stands face to face with two players on the opposite team, tossing out abuses left and right. They look angry, yet mildly confused, comprehending that the Madrid player is definitely insulting them, yet not completely sure what he’s saying.

“And what about you? I thought you were a fighter?” Leo says as he looks out at the mass of footballers still going at it despite the whistles of the refs and the intervention of the scratched players freshly on the pitch. The coaches of the two teams, both wearing long snow jackets, emerge on the sideline, yelling at each other.

Sergio brandishes a small grin, “I thought I should sit this one out and give other people a chance,” he nods toward Cristiano, now held back by Isco and Pepe.

The fans holler and shout at the commotion, some calling out to Leo: _“Diver” “He didn’t even TOUCH you” “Go back to Argentina!”_

The snow comes down harder and the brawl disperses, tensions rising as the match continues. After the fact, a few yellow cards are drawn from the pockets of green-shirted referees and there are many little shoves and elbows that they don’t call. By the end of 90 minutes, the score is 1-0 Madrid, Marcelo scoring the only goal.

After the match, Leo swaps jerseys with the most docile looking Basel player, making little eye contact, accepting the other uniform quickly. It feels loose in Leo’s hand as if his fingers don’t want to hold onto the fabric, afraid the colors may stain his skin. The snow drifts lightly now and the pitch is quiet as he exits through the tunnel, the first off the field aside from Cristiano who refused to swap jerseys minutes earlier. The score burns in the back of the Argentine’s mind, 1-0, and the goal isn’t his. He knows his father won’t be happy, possibly isn’t already if he even bothered to watch the match, that his son didn’t score once again. For some it might be a regular occurrence, going a pair of derbies without a goal, but for Leo, it’s a scoring drought, a rough patch, and it feels like eternity in a span of two matches. His cleats hit the cement floor of the dimly lit tunnel and echo off the walls, lonesome and distant.

 

The bus ride to the hotel is silent despite the win. Iker wasn’t happy about the fight and was enraged that team as a whole deigned to get involved with such an immature response. He also harangued them for a while about their single goal and how it “wasn’t enough to prove Madrid’s supremacy” and that “we’ve beat this team 5 nil before, this is a _disgrace_ ”. Iker sits three rows up from Leo, sulking in his chair as Sergio attempts to make light conversation. It’s clear that the goaltender isn’t listening. Cristiano is still all fired up in the back of the bus, headphones on, glaring out at the snow-blanketed Swiss city. In front of Leo sits Toni and James, fogging up the windows and writing little messages to the other, grinning, and wiping the condensation away to start anew.

Lionel presses his head against the frozen window. He misses his home, his true home, Argentina. He misses the coast, the rainy summers, and the little field near his house that his friends and he used to go to after school and practice on. He can almost feel the breeze carding through his too-long hair as he ran across the poorly-maintained pitch with patches of dirt dotting the grass, can almost enjoy the familiar rays of sun as they peeked through the scraggly trees lining the chain-link fence and danced across his face, can almost smell the aura of moist soil and wet pavement after a storm. Many afternoons he would come home with flushed cheeks and dried-mud-covered knees, bangs practically covering his eyes as he smiled and caught his breath and his mother would only tsk at the stains she would have to wash out of his shorts and shirts. The images are warm, familiar, and reality is cold and stark when he opens his eyes, blinking them into focus a couple of times, and files off the bus behind his teammates with heavy legs and a foggy mind.

 

Cristiano is loud when he enters the still hotel room. He slams the door and Leo whips his head up from his book in his lap. Outside the snow falls steadily and the wind blows coarsely. The Portuguese looks flustered, restless, tossing down his duffel and looking to Leo. His hair is disheveled as if he had been running his hands through it many times, cheeks pink from the snappy air, eyes dark with passion.

Cristiano speaks when Leo returns to his book, “What were you thinking?”

Cristiano is practically shouting. Leo can feel the walls shake under his temper.

He didn’t think he really did anything _wrong_ he was just running with the ball…

“Look at me, Leo,” Cristiano says firmly, but it’s not harsh or loud this time.

Leo removes his eyes from the words on the page to lock onto the Portuguese. Up close, Leo can see a cut on Cristiano’s slightly swollen lip from the feud, blood dried on the area, red and painful.

“I don’t know,” is all Leo says, running his fingers along the comforter.

“You can’t just go out there and run around with your head down!” Cristiano raises his voice, his fists are shut tightly and Leo eyes them warily.

“Why not?” Leo asks easily, knowing full well the answer, questioning only for the reaction he will get out of the taller man.

“Because you’ll get hit!” Cristiano responds, grabbing a pillow off the bed and chucking it across the room. It hits a lamp.

“No I won’t,” Leo responds stubbornly, keeping his voice even, eying the broken lamp that was so full of life moments ago.

“Hmm, really? Then what happened today?” Cristiano snaps.

“Why do you care?” Leo replies, flicking his eyes over to focus on Cristiano whose expression is filled with dangerous agitation.

“Because I don’t want you to get hurt!” Cristiano counters quickly.

As soon as the words leave Cristiano’s mouth, he looks as though he wants them back, as if he didn’t mean to let them slip from his subconscious. The Portuguese bites his lip, the anger gone, replaced with what appears to be the closest thing to embarrassment that someone as proud and arrogant as Cristiano can experience.

Leo’s phone lights up and vibrates against the wooden night table and Cristiano looks expectantly at Leo to answer it.

The name on the screen reads _Neymar Jr._ with a smiley face emoji. Leo stares at the phone through two long ring cycles before picking up the device and pressing the little red “decline call” button, placing the phone back on the night table face down.

Cristiano stares at the phone, wide-eyed.

Leo just grins.

 _Thanks for kicking that guy into place for me._ Leo doesn’t say it, but he thinks it. _Next time, I’ll do the same for you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was it alright? :)


	9. The Apartment

The doorbell rings early the next morning, early for Cris’ standards at least. Dim, drowsy light barely floods through the windows as he makes his way from the kitchen, barefoot feet scuffing across cold morning wooden floors, rubbing an eye groggily. The whole house looks gray, barely alive, Leo still asleep upstairs and Maria out getting groceries down the street at the farmer’s market. It’s about seven o’clock.

The doorbell rings impatiently once again and for a moment, he is bothered by the idea that Leo might wake up from the noise.

“I’m coming,” Cris yawns, fixing his hair temporarily in one of the foyer’s mirrors, licking a finger and suppressing the tuft into place before opening the door. He’s slightly irritated by who stands on his doorstep so early in the morning.

“Iker?” Cristiano stares, confused.

The captain smiles, hands in his pockets, eyes crinkling around the edges.

“Come in, come in,” Cristiano steps aside to invite Iker in, but the other man declines, raising a hand and shaking his head easily, “No, Cris, I won’t be long.”

Cristiano lets his hands drop to his sides uncomfortably. Why is he here?

Silence temporarily settles between them until Iker continues, “How is Leo doing?”

Cristiano observes his captain skeptically. _You drove all the way across town at 7 AM to ask me how the little flea is doing? Why don’t you ask him yourself? He’s just up the stairs on the left, wake him up and I’m sure he’d be overjoyed to answer the question._

Cris’ lips curl into a smile, “Definitely better, uh, but it’s only been about a week and a half...”

The goaltender nods in agreement, pausing momentarily, examining the doorframe as if it’s completely and totally worth giving his attention to instead of the living, breathing human being within the frame itself.

“We found him an apartment,” Iker says absentmindedly, quiet yet firm.

Cristiano seems to have misheard him, “What?”

“It’s on the other side of town, 32nd floor suite, it’s quite nice, not saying that your place isn’t nice, just being more practical with Leo getting used to the city, y’know?” Iker talks smoothly, calmly.

Cristiano stares at the man before him who is still mesmerized by the doorframe, a relaxed expression swept across his captain’s face, not meeting Cristiano’s eyes.

“What makes you think that Leo _wants_ to get his own apartment?” Cris hisses between gritted teeth. Some emotion similar to anger threatens to rise up in his chest, but he represses the feeling.

“We assumed that he would want his own place,” Iker replies, still keeping a gentle tone with Cristiano.

_Yeah, well you assumed wrong, Casillas, Leo is perfectly happy where he is right now, and he doesn’t want to go live in some stupid suite apartment across town._

“What happened to the whole ‘building chemistry’ theme, huh, Iker?” Cristiano snaps, and Iker, at the mention of his name, flicks his gaze from the doorframe to lock eyes with Cristiano, well-aware of the hostility in the Portuguese’s demeanor.

“Why are you getting so worked up about this? Calm down, Cris. Just a couple days ago you were saying how much you hated the guy,” He speaks lightly, soothingly, as if he doesn’t want to upset Cristiano further, and the taller man hates that. He doesn’t want Iker’s pity.

It’s not that Cristiano wants Leo to _stay_ , it’s just that he doesn’t want him to _leave_ … I mean, the poor guy doesn’t even get a say in the matter and they _just_ started to build their chemistry… Or maybe he did have a say in the matter… Maybe Leo, the whole time, has wanted to get out of Cristiano’s house as soon as he arrived, hated the place, just like he hates Cristiano.

“I’m not getting worked up about it,” Cris says, mind elsewhere, “I was just a little bothered that he didn’t leave sooner.”

Iker smiles a little, “You’re going to have to get used to him some day, Cris.” The goaltender places a reassuring hand on Cristiano’s shoulder, but the Portuguese isn’t really paying attention to the contact.

“Send him over by 3, we’ll have the place set up by then,” Iker says before giving a short wave and getting into his little red Fiat parked in the driveway.

Cris isn’t listening. How could he have been so _stupid?_ Of course Leo doesn’t want to stay in Cristiano’s house. They aren’t _friends_ , they’re barely even teammates, they’re so far from liking each other, they’re _rivals_ for chrissake. Something like sadness creeps, seeps into Cristiano’s veins. But he’s not sad that Leo’s leaving, he’s really, really happy actually, overjoyed that he doesn’t have to see the Argentine as often, at least that’s what Cristiano convinces himself.

He can’t focus on this right now. They have a match tomorrow and Carlo called today a recovery day, but, of course Cristiano doesn’t believe in off days and he needs to get his head right, needs to find some way to preoccupy his mind, his body while everything sorts itself out… Yes, he needs to stay occupied. He shuts the front door quickly, searching for his training bag in an attempt to get out of the house as soon as possible, before Leo wakes up, before Maria gets back. The sun is peeking over the horizon, shedding orange light that dances through the windows. The Portuguese squints into the rays briefly, scribbling a note to the maid to gather their guest’s belongings, notifying of his whereabouts and of Leo’s predetermined change in scenery.

He refuses to entertain the thoughts and emotions fighting their way into his subconscious, grabbing the keys to the Ferrari and exiting inaudibly through a side door in the kitchen.

 

“Wake up, Mr. Leo,” Maria’s voice carries over softly from the other side of the door, tender and delicate with a hint of some unidentifiable sentiment.

Leo opens his eyes slowly, focusing on the pale cream walls that make up his room. His covers lie in a pile at the foot of the bed, a single sheet covering him.

When Leo doesn’t acknowledge the maid’s call, she speaks gently once again, “Please wake up, Mr. Leo, you have to leave in three hours and you need to pack.”

Three hours? But there’s no training today. He picks up the alarm clock on the bedside table, it reads a solid 11:45. He needs to pack? Where is he going? Is Cristiano coming too? Their next game is at home, so why would he need to pack?

He springs out of bed, pulling on a shirt off the floor, a purple tank top that he borrowed from Neymar at the beginning of the summer and never returned, and opening the door all in one breath. Maria steps back, surprised.

“Where are we going?” Leo asks, grinning a little, running a hand through the stubble growing in on his cheeks and chin. He needs to shave.

Maria places a hand over her heart as if she might pass out from Leo’s sudden appearance, “Mr. Cristiano said that you would be moving out this morning, that you will be living in an apartment across town.”

_Moving out?_ But they had just started to get along, had just begun to hate each other a little less, not that Leo really _hated_ the Portuguese, just begun to become teammates. Maybe Cristiano actually did hate Leo and they always will be rivals and he can’t stand seeing Leo any more than he has to. And for some reason the thought hurts. A sense of disappointment and unidentified frustration makes its way into Leo’s mind.

“Oh,” is all Leo says, dropping his eyes to the carpet, “Alright,” he shuts the bedroom door slowly without another word, pondering over the information with an unusually heavy heart.

_Every place I call home seems to want to get rid of me._

 

As Leo goes about packing up clothes and preparing his duffels, an unwarranted sense of emptiness fills his chest. He finds himself staring at the ground constantly, upset with himself that he should care so much. _Why am I bothered by this? I shouldn’t concern myself with this so much, it had to happen at some point, didn’t it? You already knew that Cristiano wanted you out as soon as you arrived. But he has grown on me a little… No he hasn’t we aren’t friends, he is nothing to me._

His eyes flicker to his suitcase, still packed from when it arrived late from the airport, sitting by the door, and he sighs. _We’re moving again, buddy._

The three hours pass by sickeningly slow and at 2:45, Leo stands in the foyer for the last time, duffels and suitcases by the door, Maria adjusting his tie meticulously for the third time in five minutes.

She stands back, admiring her work. The room feels unusually still. Leo hasn’t seen Cris the entire day, the house silent in his absence. He can feel the time ticking down vacantly, as if the maid is stalling.

“Well, tell Cristiano that I say thank you for his hospitality,” Leo picks up a duffel in each hand.

Maria pats Leo’s shoulder approvingly, smiling sadly at him as she opens the door, cool evening air entering the ever warm home, “I will miss you, Mr. Leo,” the maid delays a moment before she continues, “But Mr. Cristiano will miss you more.”

He freezes. The words don’t seem to make sense, contradicting pretty much every impression he thought Cristiano had of him.

“What?” Leo stares at the maid, puzzled. _I doubt that, he hates me, wants me out of his house._

Maria smiles a little wider now, light returning to her eyes as she speaks, “Oh yes, he was so upset after he found out that you weren’t staying anymore that he left the house in a huff this morning to go to the training center and hasn’t come back since.”

Leo smiles a little to himself. _I can only imagine._ So he didn’t want Leo to leave as much as he made it seem he did.

“Thank you, Maria, I think I’ll say goodbye to Cristiano in person,” Leo says to the maid, grabbing the keys to the Audi in a little clay bowl sitting on the table next to the door.

He exits quickly, tossing his duffels and suitcases in the back haphazardly. As he gets into the driver’s side, he hears a very quiet, “Oh! He is going to be _so_ mad I told him,” from the maid as she shuts the front door, giggling to herself.

 

The sun dips down beneath the top of the arena, orange and radiant, light spilling onto the darkened pitch like a glass overflowing with orange juice poured too fast. The wind is hollow, promising nothing as Leo’s feet carry him up the steps onto the pitch. Why is he here? Nothing good can come from this. He should have driven straight across town instead of taking this detour. He doesn’t need to be here right now. The grass looks melancholy, a lugubrious green as opposed to its vibrant normality. The days dim earlier now as November is coming to a close soon and winter looms in the near future. He takes a deep breath, hands in his pockets as he strolls, attempting to assume a casual demeanor. He stands just inside the sidelines, the cool evening air settling. Cristiano is a single monument among the balls and cones. He poses inside the goalie box taking shot after shot, each one hitting the crossbar and bouncing off with a loud, empty _clang_ , each shot with so much potential before he has even struck the ball, yet ending in failure, a constant reminder of how close he was each time.

Leo stands there watching, nonchalantly, easily, as if he does this every day. Cris wears a long-sleeved practice jersey, white just like their uniforms, and black shorts despite the dropping temperatures. A sweep of thin wind rustles the grass gently.

“Think you’ve dented it yet?” Leo says calmly, loud enough for Cristiano to pick up.

Cristiano is about to take another shot, bound to end in the same result: hitting the bar again, but stops himself and locks dark, angry eyes on Leo. He can almost hear the crossbar thanking Leo for ending the torment.

 

How long has Leo been standing there, watching? _Why_ is he here? Cristiano tried the whole day to ignore this very person, to keep Leo out of his mind, and for a moment, it feels almost unreal, that the Argentine isn’t _actually_ standing forty feet away, hands in his pockets, eyes locked. He looks all too laid back to actually be here. And shouldn’t he be getting his new apartment set up? Just because Leo doesn’t listen doesn’t mean Cris should have to suffer at the hand of Iker. Leo’s eyes flick up to the top row of seats, shielding his gaze with his hands. _Idiot, why are you staring at the sun._ He wears a suit, the tailored suit that Maria picked up; it’s Gucci, per Cris’ request of course, because if Leo is going to look sharp, he better be wearing brand-name suits.

 “I think it’s time to go back,” Leo says swiftly, he rocks back on his heels for a moment.

_Yeah, but you won’t be there when I go home, so why should I go_? And the fact that some part of Cristiano cares, that he wants Leo to stay somewhere deep inside him, makes him angry; he shouldn’t care, doesn’t want to care. Leo doesn’t seem to care, so why is it affecting Cris so much?

“No,” The Portuguese quips, surprised with the crudity and curtness in his tone. Leo doesn’t seem to notice his spitefulness, used to Cristiano’s rude arrogance, he surmises.

“We have a game tomorrow, c’mon Cris,” Leo says lightly, rationalizing and making Cristiano’s excessive training look as unreasonable as it actually is.

Cris rolls his eyes, “Why do you care?”

Leo brandishes a grin, a small one, yet still present, “Because I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Cris’ mind goes blank for a brief second and his chest tightens. He refuses to show emotion still, sighing, no energy left in the tank to fight with the smaller man. He stares out at the battlefield of balls and cones that he doesn’t want to clean up, eyes glazed over, bored with the warzone which he created. He shuffles, traversing the pitch, cleats combing through the grass with the quiet _shh shh_ , avoiding eye contact with Leo as he passes, mouth turned into a scowl, and exits into the tunnel.

 

The hot water trails down his muscles in droplets, sliding down across his skin easily, fluidly, softly, the locker room bathroom misty and opaque with steam. Leo waits in his stall in the locker room and Cris is well-aware of the hidden Argentine’s presence a room over. He dares to not breathe too loudly, to not think too loudly, despite the many thoughts that run relentlessly through his mind. He presses his forehead against the cool tile wall, squeezing his eyes shut. Slowly, the memory flicks through Cristiano’s mind. The dark hallway, body against body, two heartbeats thumping as one, two minds with the same goal, heat, fervor, and passion swirling to create a deadly mix of pleasure and excitement. He prays for perseverance, to forget that night, to forget Leo, but the sensation won’t give him rest.

 

The parking lot is empty aside from two cars: A cobalt Audi and a sleek, panther black Ferrari. Leo wonders if somewhere, Neymar is having dinner with his girlfriend, if somewhere Antonella is with the one she loves, if somewhere, Maria is wondering where Leo is, where Cristiano is. The taller man looks absolutely furious about Leo’s presence, walking briskly, shoes hitting the asphalt relentlessly.

The Portuguese’s eyes grow wide and his feet stop, “Is that my car?” He stares at the cobalt Audi parked right next to his black Ferrari.

“Yeah,” Leo says grinning, he can feel the keys weighing down his suit pants pockets, cold through the material against his thigh.

Cristiano’s expression returns to a scowl, saying nothing as he unlocks the Ferrari and Leo gets into the passenger side, accepting it silently.

Cristiano pulls onto the main road wordlessly, dark eyes narrowed on the stretch ahead, ignoring Leo’s existence in the seat next to him.

 “If you wanted to get rid of me, you could’ve just asked,” Leo says quietly. The words hit the air like a rock hitting metal. He watches as the Portuguese grips the wheel tighter.

Leo continues coolly, “Of course that wouldn’t have done anything, because I’m gonna be here for a while.”

“I know,” Cristiano hisses, speaking sharply and quickly.

Silence settles in the car. The radio isn’t on. The windows are rolled up. The only sound is the hum of the engine. The rift between them feels like miles.

When they roll up in front of the white mansion that is Cristiano Ronaldo’s house, the taller man speaks firmly, “I’m going to drop off this bag inside and then I can drive you to your apartment,” He must assume that Leo will stay in the car, but the Argentine has other plans. He gets out of the passenger’s side.

“What are you doing? Stay in the car,” Cristiano demands when he notices Leo following his example.

“Mmmm no thanks,” Leo replies, a smile playing on his lips.

Cristiano rolls his eyes and continues up the steps, the other man following shortly behind. _This should be interesting._ He wonders how far he can take this until Cris explodes, his patience already dwindling.

The taller man tosses his training bag next to the stairs, landing with an exasperated thump. Leo observes this thoughtfully before shutting the door and taking a few strides passed the Portuguese, dress shoes hitting the wooden floor starkly, his direction pointing toward the staircase, eyes cascading up the fixture.

“No, we’re leaving,” Cristiano states, watching Leo make his way away from the door.

“Are we?” Leo asks suggestively, turning a bit toward Cristiano, already on the second step.

“Right now, get down,” Cristiano demands as if Leo is a disobedient child on a jungle gym.

And Leo can see the rage building up behind Cristiano’s eyes, flashes of resentment beneath a collected exterior, can see the other man ball his fists up in frustration. He takes a few steps forward as to lecture Leo.

Lionel continues his ascension, reaching a space in the stairs, a landing where the stairs from then on change direction and swerve to the right. Cristiano is two steps behind him.

“Make me,” Leo replies, turning his head to look at Cristiano momentarily, face dead serious, eyes instigating.

And he can see the hitch in Cris’ expression a change in pace from cross to beyond annoyed. The tension is palpable.

Leo only has a moment to react before Cristiano sprints up the last two steps between them, shoving the smaller man against the wall of the landing, and looking him in the eyes with an intense expression laced with hatred and irritation.

“Fucking get in the car, Leo,” Cristiano hisses. His eyebrows are furrowed, face mimicking that of a ticked off mountain lion with their tail stuck in a trap.

“I can’t, you’re holding my shoulders, let go,” Leo replies tartly.

But Cristiano doesn’t release Leo and the more pressure Cristiano puts on him, the more it starts to hurt. Leo keeps a straight face despite the discomfort. Cristiano is searching Leo’s expression with quick eyes. He looks furious.

And then suddenly, Cristiano’s grip softens and relaxes, rubbing soft, gentle circles against Leo’s shoulder. The Argentine looks down at the unexpected contact before glancing back up at Cristiano’s face.

Blush spreads across the taller man’s cheeks and he draws back immediately, mumbling a quiet, “Sorry,” putting space between them.

“It’s fine,” Leo replies gently.

“Let’s go,” Cristiano makes a move to turn and make his way down the stairs, but stops when Leo retorts a stubborn, “No.”

“Leo, I’m fucking serious, let’s go,” He turns to the Argentine once again.

“Me too,” Leo refuses to back down.

Cristiano’s face grows dark again. He obviously doesn’t like to be contradicted.

And then there’s a moment of stillness where neither of them move, eyes locked on the other, hostile glares, breathing slowed on both ends until Cristiano can’t take the stillness, surging forward, pressing their lips together in one swift motion. Without breaking the kiss, the Portuguese removes his shirt quickly, letting it drop to the floor with a quiet thump. _This is really happening._ He reaches a hand to travel and tangle in Leo’s thick, dark hair, a breath stuttering out of the shorter man. Cristiano’s eyes are filled with an incredible lust, locked on Leo’s, mesmerized, unblinking, as though Leo could disappear if he looked away for a second. Cristiano drops his head to suck a bruise against Leo’s collarbone, loosening and slipping off the Argentine’s tie in the process to better access his pulse point, while Leo’s busy fingers unbutton his dress shirt. Leo can’t hold back the moan that escapes him when Cristiano slots their hips together, needing more friction, needing more of everything. The space between them feels so little, yet Leo is constantly drawing Cristiano closer, more friction, more skin, more touching, his hot breath on Cristiano’s shoulder, Cristiano’s teeth on Leo’s neck, and when Cristiano elicits a low, moan of pleasure, Leo’s heart skips a beat.

Leo can only watch, tossing his head back when even that becomes too difficult, head spinning, blood rushing, chills darting across his skin everywhere Cristiano’s hands and lips touch. He allows his fingers to dance across Cristiano’s abs, the skin taut and golden, a polar opposite to Leo’s own pale complexion, but he likes the way their tone contrasts appear when it’s only skin against skin, bronze and ivory. His chest rises and falls quickly, and his arousal grows with each kiss that Cris places to his jaw. In an attempt to regain his composure, he brings their lips together, tongues tangling, exploring the other man’s mouth, leaving him breathless, panting, lips kiss swollen when Leo bites down on Cristiano’s bottom lip and breaks the kiss.

Cristiano is beautiful, hair tousled and still-damp from the shower, pupils dilated, lips red and shiny, cheeks tainted a rosy pink, eyes dark and intense. Leo brings a hand up to cup Cristiano’s cheek, run a thumb along his bottom lip wordlessly as the taller man watches his every move, chest rising and falling quickly.

Cristiano examines Leo briefly, making brief eye contact before speaking breathily,  “Bed.”

Leo only nods, can’t form words at this time, racing up the stairs and down the hall to Cristiano’s bedroom.

His thoughts marathon in his head, heart fiery, beating fast, relentlessly. Leo only has a moment before Cristiano is pressed against him once again, lips together, tongues clashing, teeth biting, hands roaming, moans and gasps filling the room, heartbeats in synch, lungs pleading for air, leaving the other breathless and wanting more.

Without warning, Cristiano stops, pressing their foreheads together.

“Are you still moving out?” The Portuguese speaks softly against Leo’s lips, eyes determined.

“Not on your life,” Leo breathes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I might not be able to update for a while because I’m really busy these next couple of weeks, but I’ll try! Also, if you guys have any cute Leo/Cris pictures, feel free to comment them!


	10. Rivals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of last chapter's events

The sun has vanished now, a cool aura of darkness filling the bedroom, the freshly awoken moon, still low in the navy midnight sky, producing the only light. It’s just enough for Leo to be able to make out Cristiano’s expression, focused and controlling, as the taller man leans over him, grinding their hips in unison, clothing lying on the carpet somewhere carelessly, forgotten. Leo’s hands are a separate entity from his body, roaming across the other’s chest hurriedly, feeling the warm, tanned skin beneath his touch.  It’s messy, graceless, skin on skin, kissing with teeth and tongue, moans and gasps filling the room, like nothing that Leo has ever experienced before, and he wants more all at once. Cristiano’s hair is a mess, all over the place, cheeks lightly pinked, lips kiss-swollen and red, eyes determined, promising Leo everything. His teeth nip at Leo’s bottom lip, his earlobe, his collarbone, gently yet forcefully at the same time. Leo can’t hold back the moans that escape his throat when Cristiano strokes his already hard cock, simultaneously licking a thick strip up his neck, and he tosses his head back against the mattress in ecstasy.

Cristiano’s hands are dominating, strong on Leo’s hips, holding them steadily, hard enough to leave marks on his pale skin, guiding their movements, the friction unbelievable. Leo pants into Cris’ shoulder, it’s all too much, “I’m-,” Leo begins and Cristiano pulls off, trying to draw out the moment for as long as possible. Out of a bedside table, he produces a bottle of lube and a condom, ripping the latter open with his teeth in a moment, slipping it on and covering his cock with a generous amount of lube. Leo longs to stroke it, in awe of it, but there will be time for that later. Cris catches the smaller man’s gaze, grinning at him.

The Portuguese presses Leo back into the mattress, settling himself between his legs, dick teasing Leo’s entrance, pausing for a moment. Leo whimpers, if he doesn’t have Cris now, he might melt, bucking his hips down in protest. Cris steadies Leo’s hips easily, eyes dark with passion, before pressing in all too slowly, and Leo can feel every inch. He bites the thick inside of his cheek out of reflex, hard enough to draw blood, and then Cristiano is creating a rhythm. Leo gasps a quiet _“Cristiano,”_ and then the taller man is covering Leo’s mouth with his own, tongue exploring, teeth tugging insistently at his lips. Cris trails, his hands down to Leo’s ass, grabbing teasingly, lifting his hips up for better access, hitting the perfect spot in the process, and Leo almost forgets to breath, blood pulsing through his veins faster now, letting out a long, low hiss of euphoria.

The covers are a wine red, the color of rose pedals, silky smooth balled up in Leo’s grip. He’s seeing stars from the pleasure, which spreads from pain. The noises Cris makes are absolutely _filthy,_ eyes half-closed, mouth open, panting in between moans and cusses, occasionally calling out Leo’s name through the excitement. And Leo drinks in every noise, every pulse, the collision of skin on skin. The heat of the man hovered above him is electric, blissful, and he refuses to blink, refuses to look away from Cristiano, can’t stop touching his abs, his face, can’t stop kissing and biting his lips. Leo’s cock leaks precome as it bounces against his stomach in between Cristiano and he. His mind is foggy with everything happening around him, focusing only on the other living breathing human pounding into him, speaking little, actions leaving marks and impressions that will stay for a couple days. And for a moment, he forgets his arrogance, his pride, his stubbornness, and revels in his glory, his perfection.

All at once, Leo can feel the heat building in the pit of his stomach, eyes locked on Cristiano’s as the taller man grasps his cock, pumping in time with his thrusts, digging dull nails into Cristiano’s back muscles, and comes with three flicks of Cristiano’s wrist, tossing his head back, hips arched off the bed, the other man holding his hips flushed against his own groin. He gasps, white-hot pleasure overcoming his senses in a flood of intoxicating euphoria.

And then the room is still. The night is full now, the moon drifting through the drawn window dimly, giving everything a soft glow.

The only noise is of breathing, heavy and rushed. Leo’s head is foggy, eyes adjusting to the darkness as he cleans himself off with a corner of the sheet that Cristiano offers him. Absent-mindedly, he tugs on his boxers from the floor, slipping under the covers, melting into Cris’ touch as he pulls Leo close, pressing soft, delicate kisses to his damp, dark hair. Cris smells of sweat and faded cologne, skin smooth, heartbeat loud in his ears as Leo rests his head against the Portuguese’s chest. It rises and falls easily. He can feel Cristiano’s eyes on him through the darkness and wonders what the other man is thinking. He returns Cris’ gaze, receiving a pearly white Cristiano Ronaldo smile and a slow, deep kiss that makes his stomach flutter, and at this moment, wrapped in his rival’s arms, he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Current fave Cris/Leo pics:

 


	11. Good Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yayayay short update :)

Leo blinks his eyes open, fighting against the blinding, white morning light that caresses across his face. He glances around the room, not recognizing any of the paintings on the wall nor the rug or armoire. The covers are soft as silk, redder than the juicy, ripe inside of a watermelon, gentle and velvety against his pale skin. He rolls over, facing the inside of the bed now, almost falling off the mattress when he lays eyes on the other warm body beside him. Cristiano sleeps undisturbed, a few stray locks of dark brown hair hanging against his forehead, mouth slightly open, teeth peeking barely from under pink lips. Those lips, Leo remembers them, against his own, soft and persuasive, against his cheeks, his jaw, his neck his collarbone. Cristiano’s hands, on Leo’s hips rough and demanding, cupping his face, pressing him into the mattress.

Suddenly, the smaller man feels dizzy, unwell, slipping out of bed, making his way to the bathroom. He observes himself in the mirror, the bruises scattered across his neck and collarbone, pressing them experimentally, gasping at the sudden sharp pain that spreads from each plum-colored mark. But, for the first time in what feels like years, the dark circles underneath his eyes are gone, vanished within one night. The brand of underwear he wears gazes at him like a caged tiger. CR7 it reads. Leo takes them off immediately, twisting on the shower, letting the hot water roll off his skin and wash away the night before hopelessly, but Leo can’t forget the way that Cristiano kissed him, so much passion, so much fervor in each touch, hold, with each thrust promising him so much, whispering sweet nothings into his ears.

His mind feels fuzzy, short-circuited, as if none of this makes sense. He barely knows Cristiano, for Christ's sake they're seen as rivals to the rest of the world and teammates now to the city of Madrid, how could this have happened? When did the glares stop becoming hostile and turn into something else? His blood rushes quickly in his veins, hot and direct. His skin feels warm, alive, revived underneath the blast of the shower head. He remembers watching Cristiano on the pitch in past El Clásicos, remembers the white kit with the coal black  _Fly Emirates_ across his chest, and never would he have thought back then that last night he would drift asleep with his head rested against it. He always thought of Cristiano as arrogant, self-absorbed and Leo wonders when he stopped seeing the Portuguese as anything but cocky and proud, flamboyant and flashy. He still wears designer clothing, still grins the same "I'm better than you" grin, still speaks through that thick accent, but now it seems natural and ordinary. Leo fears that if he were to get on a plane right now and fly to Barcelona and have a conversation with Neymar or Xavi or Dani Alvez, would their voices sound strange in his ears like a new bell rung for the first time, unfamiliar and remote compared to Cristiano's or Iker's or James'?

The door to the bathroom opens slowly and in struts Cristiano himself, wearing white pajama bottoms low on his hips, nothing else. Without another thought, he undoes the satin tie at the waist, letting the fabric drop to the floor, pattering barefoot to the shower with soft, slow steps. Leo holds his breath, pressing his forehead against the shower wall, the exact place he pressed his forehead a mere week and a half ago, when all this was still new and foreign and weird and Barça was his home still and Neymar talked to him regularly, eyes closed listening to the sound of liquid hitting skin, the distant hushed breathing of Cristiano, the pounding of his own pulse in his ears. A deliberate hand rests on Leo’s hip, nonchalant, tender, rubbing neutral circles against the flesh followed by Cris’ chest, hard and warm, welding itself to Leo’s back, wet and smooth, ever so slightly, hardly touching, just enough for heat to seep into Leo’s skin and send chills running across. The Portuguese’s other hand wanders up Leo’s stomach, across his abs, to his chest, bringing the footballers closer. A rush of pent up air releases from Leo’s lungs. The taller man rests his head on Leo’s shoulder and only then does Leo open his eyes tilting it ever so slightly to allow Cris to murmur, _“Good morning,”_ into his ear. The words tickle against his skin, and Leo can’t help but smile a little, turning to face the other man now, back to the wall.

Cristiano rests a hand on Leo’s lower back, eyes locked on the Argentinian’s, swiping a few strands of dark, wet hair plastered to his forehead. It’s true, Cristiano is as handsome as the pictures, even more so in person, in the full, standing so close to Leo. His abs are solid, chiseled, biceps shapely, thighs strong, chest sturdy and magnificent, skin smooth and tanned, back muscles rippling, and jawline sharp. And his smile, _his smile_ , something inside him like fireworks erupts every time Cris flashes that million-dollar grin. And he still wonders how he got into bed with him. Maybe this is some kind of joke. Maybe Cris wanted to see how far he could take this, see how much he could tempt Leo, if he would even be able to fuck Leo, and now that he’s accomplished his task, he won’t need Leo anymore, doesn’t want Leo anymore except for the occasional hook up. Leo looks into those dark brown eyes and feels sad, worthless almost all of the sudden. _No, it’s unrealistic to think that he’d ever really have feelings for you, idiot, you’re a toy, just another “Let me see how fast this one will get under the sheets with me”. He can have anyone he wants, why the hell would you think that that meant he’d choose you?_

Cris leans in pressing a soft kiss to Leo’s lips, letting his tongue roam inside his mouth, and Leo moans a little, threading his fingers through Cristiano’s thick hair before breaking the kiss moments later. He allows Cris to grin at him and swipe his thumb across his bottom lip for a little while longer before stepping out from under the spray, wrapping a towel from the stack around his waist, and leaving Cristiano to finish his shower in peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how much time I will have to update this over the next two weeks, but as always I will try my best and don't hate me if there isn't another edit for a while!


	12. Trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I had a little time today! I don't think I'll have any more for the next few weeks...

Clouds loom low in the sky above the pitch at the Santiago Bernabéu Stadium, threatening rain but not hinting at when the floodgates may open. Leo hangs off to the sideline during a cease in activities, Isco, Pepe, and Sergio by his side, taking their turns with the water bottle that Leo hands off. Training is choppy this late November morning, accomplishing little with empty continuous mini games that bore Leo easily when he finds himself standing aside, eyes glazed, watching his teammates take their turns. Today, a blue practice uniform awaited the Argentinian in his stall along with the other madridistas, folded into a perfectly symmetrical square, brandishing the white-printed _Fly Emirates_. Blending with the forest green of the free-growing pitch, they assimilate appearance-wise to an unruly storm at sea, battering ships and crushing masts, rain and wind raging and roaring above the crashing waves, leaving no survivors to tell their tales. It’s a color similar to that of the Argentina World Cup final kits, a melancholy royal blue that demands respect from all who wear it. Leo remembers very clearly losing to Germany wearing the stormy blue, the golden crest heavy above his heart, the fabric weighing him down as if it was made of lead woven fibers. He’d never felt so crushed, so powerless, even as he accepted the golden ball, he felt empty as though he was holding air because the trophy that he wanted was in the hands of Germans, so far out of his reach.

Pepe gives the bottle a good-natured squirt watching the misty spray as it disperses in the air and hits the earth, "What are you doing after training, Leo? Are you free?"

Leo hasn't really spoken much to anyone other than Iker, James, and Cristiano since his arrival, and he's almost surprised when the defender addresses him singularly. Of course he's free, what does Pepe think Leo has planned? He has no idea where anything or anyplace is located, nor does he know anyone in the city. His thoughts drift to Cristiano, wondering if he'll care that Leo won't be spending the afternoon with him, but his conscience responds for the Portuguese, reminding him that Cristiano could probably care less and is most definitely occupied elsewhere.

Leo shrugs, "Yeah, what did you have in mind?"

Pepe flashes a grin, and Leo counts it as some kind of accomplishment, "Isco and I were gonna go grab lunch at this little café a couple streets down, maybe see a movie or something afterwards."

Sergio whips his head around from where he watches Bale taking some practice shots on Iker, "What about me?" The Spaniard demands, wide eyes incredulous.

"What about you?" Pepe gazes at his line mate.

"I thought I was coming too," Sergio says, baffled that he has been replaced.

"Oh, I'm sorry, you still want to go? I couldn't tell, you were too busy making eyes at Casillas," Isco replies smoothly, calmly, effortlessly.

Sergio stares, mouth agape, at Leo, _"Was I?"_

The Argentine pinches his fingers together, leaving a little space between his thumb and forefinger, squinting for emphasis, "A little bit." He's enjoying this far too much.

Sergio gasps, offended, "I certainly was _not_ I was just... Observing the stands,"

"Sese, you've been playing in this stadium for ten years now and not once have I seen you look at those bleachers like you look at Iker Casillas," Isco says matter of factly.

"This is getting bad, why don't you just tell him how you feel," Pepe watches Sergio throw his hands up to the sky in disbelief. 

"What, like just walk up to him and casually start a conversation like, 'Hey Iker, nice weather we're having, would you mind if you stopped ignoring me, you dick? K thanks'?" Sergio retorts.

"I don't see why not," Pepe says calmly, shrugging.

The Spaniard scoffs before storming off in the other direction. Leo smiles a bit. Never would he have thought that he'd be making easy talk with Pepe and Isco, Pepe especially, who Leo swears just went after him and no one else every El Clásico, or be listening to Sergio Ramos' relationship issues.

"So you can come, no?" Isco says suavely as the three make their way back onto the pitch.

Leo flashes a grin, a truly genuine one, "I don't see why not."

 

Cristiano is as distant as he was the first time they met on the pitch all those years ago, back then both rising stars learning the ropes with shortened playing time and leashes that limited their freedom, their abilities to soar above the rest. And now here they are, floating high above the clouds, looming over the rest, staring each other in the eyes, face to face, feet on the same pitch, hearts beating underneath the same jerseys, yelling at each other as if they still play on rival teams, as if they have never heard the other’s name in their life, as if they didn’t share that night together. The energy is palpable, fierce, and all their teammates can do is stand and stare and pretend what’s happening is not actually happening.

“Watch where you’re going,” Leo shoves Cris, and his own energy surprises him.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t _see_ you, you’re just so small it’s practically impossible _not_ to trip over you,” Cris replies without hesitation, catching his balance.

“Maybe if you passed it every now and then I wouldn’t have to trip you, that’s the only way I’ll ever get to touch the ball,” Leo rolls his eyes.

“And they call you humble? Modest even? Jokes,” Cris folds his arms across his chest.

“At least they don’t call me arrogant,” Leo hisses under his breath.

Cristiano glares for a moment before turning his back and walking to the starting position. They’ve been attempting to perfect their triangle pass play and on the seventh go round, the drop pass over the midline failed yet again.

“Don’t fuck it up this time,” Cris drops the words quietly as he makes his way to the center, only a sentence for Leo’s ears to hear.

“Keep your head up and watch the play. I know it’s hard to take your eyes off me, or at least that’s how it was last night…” Leo’s voice drops off with a grin and Carlo blows the whistle, triggering a small, quick Argentinian and a tall, powerful Portuguese to explode onto the pitch like two purebred racehorses born to compete, to win.

A quick pass to Benzema, returned back to Ronaldo in an instant, leading up to a perfectly executed drop pass, picked up by Messi, curling to the right of Benzema for the fake drop, finishing with a cross back door to an open Ronaldo for the header hitting twine just inches out of reach of Casillas’ outstretched gloved fingertips. And it’s a work of art, truly magnificent, and they probably could do it again, the exact same way if they wanted to. Leo glances up to Cris and Cris looks to Leo, both embarrassed about their behavior, neither apologizing, Cris too proud to admit his wrongs, Leo too stubborn to back down. They keep their space.

 

The locker room is loud and full of life, guys tugging their blue practice jerseys over their heads and tossing them carelessly in the middle of the floor like a makeshift laundry pile. Leo watches with dull eyes. He knows he should apologize, knows it was immature and uncalled for and completely arbitrary, but a little piece of him coos a quiet _“Leave it be, Leo, be the dominant one for once.”_ He runs a hand through his hair, aware of Cristiano’s eyes stuck on him from across the room. Removing his cleats slowly, he only has to wait a couple more seconds until Cristiano traverses the room, grabbing Leo’s arm, gently but with enough force to mean business, leading him outside the lockers into the empty hallway.

Cris’ eyes are soft, warm, inviting, and Leo’s heart beats a little faster in his chest with each passing second.

“Did I do something wrong?” Cristiano asks gingerly, bringing a calloused hand up to caress Leo’s cheek.

Leo opens his mouth to speak but resists the urge to open up. _He doesn’t care, Leo, he just doesn’t want to cause havoc on the pitch anymore to save his image. Ignore him,_ the little voice in the back of his mind says. Leo shuts his mouth, pressing his lips together in defiance.

Cris watches this action, puzzled. His fingers move to tuck a lock of hair behind Leo's left ear before coming to rest on the back of his head. The Argentinian needs a haircut and he knows it’s a little too long for his present liking, yet it's not even close to how long it used to be when he had bangs that swept into his eyes relentlessly and heated up the back of his neck, but he doesn’t know where to get it done. He’ll have to ask Benzema later as a joke.

“Do-,” Cristiano pauses, almost tentatively, for a moment, which is so unlike the proud, self-confident, self-possessed Cristiano Ronaldo that Leo remembers seeing at all the awards ceremonies, shaking his hand politely for the cameras, feeling like a ruby standing next to a diamond who always knew what to say, always knew when to smile, and always knew when to listen appropriately,  bringing himself slightly nearer to the shorter man, “Do you regret what we did?”

Leo senses the blood rushing to his cheeks. He knows they’re rosy and blowing his cover. Suddenly, he feels conscious of the bruises against his skin and yearns to back out of Cris’ hold, to push him away and return to the locker room.

“No,” he says a little too harshly for his own liking and Cris’ expression relaxes.

The Portuguese closes the rest of the space between them, pinning Leo against the wall with his hips, “Would you want to do it again?” Cris’ voice is a low, husky whisper, licking the shell of Leo's ear, sending shivers down his spine.

And he wants to say no, wants to deny Cris control and strength and everything else that comes with not giving in. _He doesn’t have any feelings for you, it’s purely physical, nothing else._ And for a moment, Leo thinks that maybe he himself can make this relationship solely a physical one, orbiting around sex alone and not the emotional aspects as well, but he knows that with Cristiano, he can never have anything that is simply just for the material benefits.

Cris presses a chaste kiss to Leo’s forehead, lips brushing against skin, so delicate and affectionate.

“I’m sorry- I-I have to-,” and then Leo’s gone, ducking away from Cristiano, returning to the locker room, leaving Cris alone in the hallway to ponder his thoughts and unsaid words. And still the blush remains on his cheeks in Cristiano’s absence.

 

 

 

Also here are the boys in the World Cup (notice the captains' armbands)

 

_be free, Cris, be free_

__

a thoroughly displeased Leo

content Cris coppin' a glance

hands on the hips casually sassy Leo


	13. Blaugrana Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took forever to update :/ I was really busy... still am... don't know when I'll be able to update, but enjoy! Also, have you guys SEEN all the stuff in the news about Leo and Cristiano and all the DRAMA going on in Barcelona and Cris with Irina and lil Cristiano Junior and THE THIGH TOUCH and the Ballon d'Or and LEO'S HATTRICK and Leo saying he would want to play with Cristiano someday?? Beautiful.

It’s the afternoon before Real Madrid faces off against Atlético Madrid when Neymar calls. Leo rests his head on Cris’ thigh, eyes watching the television idly on the wall of the downstairs sitting room, the taller man petting a hand through Leo’s hair, scrolling his phone in the other. Things have been good between them after Cris made it very clear that they can be something good together.

 

It was last Thursday, after the win against Elche, the squad went out to celebrate at a club in Alicante, early in the morning, just passed midnight, the two didn’t drink, but their teammates did. On the dance floor, a mix of madridistas collided with girls, downing shots and moving to the beat of the music, lights sporadic, air thick. Through the mist Leo caught Cristiano’s eye, a girl grinding on him, but Cristiano didn’t seem to notice or care for that matter. Cris wore a freshly pressed white button down and his favorite pair of designer jeans, hair freshly gelled, shoes more expensive than their bar tab that night.

_“Wanna dance?”_ He mouthed to Leo between the darkness and Leo shook his head silently. The beat of the music pulsed in his veins, loud and lively.

_“Are you sure?”_ The Portuguese called out from across the club, over the music.

Leo just stared at him before getting down from his bar stool and making his way to the exit. The hotel that the Real Madrid squad stayed at that night was just across the street from the club, conveniently, and Leo was able to slip across the road, checking for cars first of course, and enter through the back of the grand building, unnoticed by a city fast asleep. He told himself that he was tired and left because of that reason alone… not because he didn’t want to see Cristiano with somebody else, but because they had a long day ahead of them and he needed sleep. Yet, when he slipped the key in the slot, slipped his shoes off by the door, tossed his jacket on the back of a lounge chair, and plugged his phone in to charge, he didn’t get into bed. Instead, he sat on the side of the bed, staring at Cristiano’s Gucci duffel, still packed, despite the three hours before the match that they had to get settled. Then, his eyes roamed to his own Adidas duffel, and wondered if he ever unpacked the Ronaldo jersey. He didn’t know why he wasn’t in bed, couldn’t believe that his feet carried him over to the coffee table the bag rested on, unable to comprehend why his hands sifted through the fabrics until finding the one unlike the rest, closing around the jersey and removing it from its crevice. Leo stared at it, ran his fingers along the material just like he did the first time he laid eyes on it. It was the milky white he had grown accustomed to and now the blue and claret looked distant and unfamiliar, seen in a new light every time he caught the matches or interviews on TV. The neon practice jerseys seemed so different, so odd, as if he could get a rash from the material if he attempted to pull it over his head as he had done so many times before. But _this_. This avalanche of beauty, the Real Madrid kit, it lit a spark, small yet still apparent, of excitement when he let his eyes rest on it. It was a blank page, a fresh start, even though he didn’t need one to begin with, but he accepted it now, with open arms. He flipped the shirt over to gaze across the back, the graceful number seven filling the space intimidatingly, the _Ronaldo_ that grinned at him like a sharp-toothed monster, and the itty bitty Madrid crest stuck in at the bottom of the number, small yet powerful.

Behind him, he heard the dull sound of a keycard slipping into the slot, the click of the door handle, and the cloudy scuff of expensive shoes across carpet. Leo dropped the jersey back into the duffel and zipped it swiftly before turning from the table to face the other man.

The hotel room was dimly lit, the only light trickling from the barely ajar bathroom door. Cool air threatened to seep through the poorly insulated window behind, and chills spread across Leo’s skin. He moved away from the glass, closer to his bed, sitting on the side facing the other wall in between the crevice space of their beds. Cristiano was completing effortless, menial tasks, unlatching his silver Gucci watch, his favorite one, slipping off the leather belt that held up his relaxed fit designer jeans. The denim sagged in the slightest, low on the Portuguese’s hip, exposing the tan strip of skin of his hipbones that swept in a “V” southward.

The taller man didn’t acknowledge Leo at first. He set out his clothes for the plane ride home the next morning, peeled off his socks, removed his shirt, exposing his rippling back muscles, for he faced away from Leo, dropped his pants revealing strong thighs and his patented CR7 boxers, a distracting orange and black, and pulled on a worn t-shirt and a pair of plaid patterned pajama bottoms. Only then did Cristiano shut off the bathroom light, leaving them in a murky dimness, making his way over to Leo, standing above him.

“O leãozinho,” Cristiano had said. His voice was low, laced with desire, a certain fondness that Leo couldn’t place at the moment, eyes shiny and full of poise, confidence, face relaxed. And when Cristiano said this, Leo seemed to melt almost, chest pounding. Cris looked down at the smaller man, taking his head in his hands gently, swiping a thumb across Leo’s cheek tenderly, “What’s wrong?” Cris breathed out.

And Leo couldn’t keep his eyes off him. And he was ashamed that he could let his feelings control him like this; let this become something more than a one night stand. It was unprofessional, undesirable, and bound to end in disaster, putting a rift between them bigger than their original tear. He swallowed hard, searching the other man’s face for anger, resentment, an emotion reflecting amusement even, but found only sincerity, which puzzled him further. Cristiano wasn’t supposed to feel anything for Leo; at least that’s what Leo thought. Cristiano wasn’t to fall in love, only have others fall for him, and with Leo of all people? It didn’t make sense.

“I- I,” Leo stuttered, annoyed and frustrated with himself. He could feel the blush permeating the pale skin of his cheeks, “What… What are we? You and me?” He huffed out a breath.

Cristiano quietly _shh_ ’d Leo before slowly swiping his thumb across the shorter man’s bottom lip, temporarily dipping it into his mouth before removing it once more. The Argentinian shuddered at the touch, eyes fluttering shut momentarily, letting out a rush of hot air from his lungs, a gasp. His subconscious scolded him for not repressing his want.

“Why do you worry? Where did this come from?” Cristiano spoke with a soothing tone, eyes calm, only for Leo and no one else.

“I-I don’t want to just be a casual, easy fuck, I want to be more than that, so much more than that and I-,” he took a breath, mulling over the words temporarily, “I-,” Leo looked at his hands, voice dropping low, weakened, “hope you do too.”

Cris was silent for a short while, caressing the sides of Leo’s face, looking down at him in the dark room with a pleased, comfortable expression, carding a hand through Leo’s dark hair slowly, repeatedly.

The silence bothered Leo. He wanted to fidget, wanted to run, go far, far away, wished for solace, his home, Argentina, not Barcelona, not even Madrid yet then, but all he got was Cristiano’s dark eyes and unreadable gaze.

The seconds ticked passed until Cris cupped Leo’s face once more, bringing his head to press against the Portuguese’s chest through his thin, stonewashed t-shirt. The warmth seeped through the fine layer of fabric soft against Leo’s cheek, heart beat thumping steadily, readily in Leo’s ears, the most stable sound he had heard in a while, could practically feel the blood rushing through Cristiano’s veins, and the sound filled the Argentinian’s senses, solely, singularly, as if nothing else in the world mattered, existed.

Leo glanced up at the Portuguese watching him with those soft eyes.

“It beats for you,” Cristiano whispered in the darkness, and Leo didn’t need to hear anything else after that. He was Cristiano’s and Cristiano’s was his.

 

“Are you going to answer that?” Cris nods to Leo’s phone vibrating against the coffee table.

Leo stares at the name on the screen blankly. Neymar hadn’t spoken to him in what felt like weeks, they hadn’t even texted, so a call was a big leap from that. They used to see each other on the daily, frequently texted and hung out outside of practice, they were close back then, when Leo was still on Barça, but now, as he watches his phone convulse against wood, he briefly considers letting the call ring out and go to voicemail. But, he doesn’t. He sits up, dragging a hand through his hair, yawning slightly, as if in no hurry, groggily sliding his palm over the sleek, cool stainless steel phone back, swiping his thumb across to accept the call.

He lets Neymar speak first, “Leo! Hey man, how’s it going, how’ve you been?” He sounds happy, relaxed, like old times, and a small part of Leo misses this, but the feeling is easily suppressed. Cristiano clicks through the channels boredly and Leo focuses more on the Portuguese than the Brazilian.

“Good and you?” It’s a generic response, Leo knows, but for the first time, it’s as if he doesn’t really know how to talk to Neymar, as if it’s uncomfortable around the other man.

“Good, good! What kind of stuff have you been up to? I haven’t talked to you in forever!” He gives a good natured laugh and Leo would’ve grinned at that usually if he hadn’t been watching Cristiano biting his bottom lip in concentration as he sifted through his emails on his phone, contrasting soft pink caught between a brilliant white.

Leo pauses for a moment, remembering he is expected to answer the voice on the other end of the phone, mulling over the question that he didn’t really listen to, “Uh yeah, y’know football and all,” Leo replies lamely.

“Well, _of course_ , but what else? How’s the team?” Neymar is being extremely patient.

Leo ponders this question, eyes sweeping across the walls that hold Cristiano’s framed jersey collection. The sight is normal, more regular than Neymar’s voice at this point, more interesting than Neymar’s catch-up conversation. Currently, Neymar’s harmless inquiry about the team reflects in Leo’s subconscious as a plot to dig up dirt on the Madrid squad, an attempt to get ahead for Barça using Leo as the bridge to take him there, for they are enemies now, an idea imprinted on Leo’s mind that roots its way deeper, and is no longer that difficult to believe. But, another idea forms, a thin, depleted one, linked with memories and joy that he built during his 10 years in Barcelona, that he can still be friends with Neymar and Xavi and Piqué while playing for Madrid.

“They’re good, a real special group of guys,” Leo replies, grinning. Cristiano glances up from his phone at this. His expression is intense, glaring almost, eyes flicking to rest on the phone in Leo’s hand momentarily.

“As good as us?” Neymar jokes, laughing a bit into his words at the end. Leo squeezes his thigh out of reflex, gritting his teeth into a smile.

“No,” the words form on his lips hesitantly, but his mind doesn’t believe it, and it comes out as a forced truth, a lie.

Neymar laughs, “Oh, that’s good, I always knew you’d never put them above us.”

And Leo shuts his mouth, leaving his end of the line silent. He stares at the carpet and the world feels as if it has stopped spinning altogether.

Neymar’s muffled laugh dies down. “Right?” He asks, voice lingering uncertainly.

Leo chews on the inside of his cheek. Cristiano has put down his phone by now, silently staring at the muted TV. The kitchen clock ticks forlornly in the distance and Maria shuts washer loudly from upstairs. And still, Leo is silent.

“Leo?” Neymar’s voice is losing its luster, its hope.

Leo sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, “Listen…”

Neymar probably rolls his eyes at this. He snaps, suddenly, “You are one of them aren’t you? They really did change you. I thought that they never could, but God dammit Leo, you proved me wrong.”

“What did you expect, Ney?” Leo replies, slightly annoyed.

“I don’t know, not this!” Neymar counters.

“I was traded,” Leo huffs, obviously.

“I know!” Neymar shoots back.

“So, Madrid is where I am now,” Leo doesn’t see why this is so hard to understand.

“I _know_!” Neymar spits.

“Then why are you angry?” Leo retorts. In his peripheral vision, he can see Cristiano watching him intently.

“Because I thought we could still be friends,” Neymar poses thoughtfully, full of expression.

“We still are,” Leo states, and he doesn’t fully believe it.

“Are we? Are we _really_ , Leo?” Ney demands.

“Yes!” Leo doesn’t hesitate but his mind does after he says it, pondering his reply.

“When was the last time you asked me how my day was, how our last game was, how my family was, huh, Leo?” Neymar insists boldly.

Leo thinks briefly to apologize, but he doesn’t know why he should or what that will solve. He keeps his mouth shut.

“Whatever,” Neymar huffs, “Enjoy Madrid, Leo, now that we’re out of your way,” the Brazilian’s voice drops off.

The line clicks dead.

Leo links his eyes to the TV, watching the scenes shift before his vision. He wants to call back, wants to explain himself, but something stops him. Cristiano strings a loose arm around Leo’s waist, pulling the smaller man so he’s practically on the Portuguese’s lap.

“Don’t worry about it,” Cristiano murmurs against Leo’s ear, nibbling the flesh.

And Leo almost listens to Cristiano’s words, almost doesn’t worry about the Brazilian or Barcelona, a bigger force taking over that bleeds for Madrid, fighting internally against his Blaugrana heart. _Almost._

 

 

 

 

And here are the boys

 

Leo looking fresh to death with his trophy

Smiley Cris and his 3rd Ballon d'Or

Passing the baton to Leo

Cris presenting his trophy like a proud dad

Contemplative Leo

Cracking jokes are we?

And everyone's favorite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also was working on another fic with a prompt and I'll be posting that soon, so there's that!


	14. All That Matters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I know I suck and I haven't updated since the Prussians invaded Austria, and I know this is shorter than Kim Kadashian's last marriage, but I've been hella busy and it's all downhill from here, so I'm sorry, but I PROMISE I will not leave this fic unfinished I am going to finish this badboy.... I just don't know when....

Cristiano is flushed against Leo, skin on skin, heartbeats racing, gasps and moans filling the room. Clips of the match flick behind Leo’s eyelids squeezed shut. He wants to forget, wants to erase every part of the pitch that he scaled just an hour prior. Cristiano bites another mark into Leo’s neck. His senses are alive, every inch of skin on fire, flushed crimson under Cris’ rough hands. Every missed shot, every unforeseen opportunity, Leo begs to lose himself in Cristiano. His thoughts flood. The score flashes, 3-2, all goals from Cristiano for the hat trick, selfishly, Leo thinks, and none for him, and he hates that he can’t be happy for Cristiano, for his new teammate, for his new _boyfriend_ , for his old rival. He _hates_ that he can’t score, that he hasn’t produced a goal in three matches and it hurts.

But, Leo wants it to hurt now. Asks Cristiano not to prep him too much and cut to the fucking as soon as possible and Cristiano doesn’t object, a smirk on his lips, teeth winking, pressing a chaste kiss to Leo’s temple in reply. He covers Leo with himself in the dimly lit room, city lights in the background, in a place that Leo familiarizes himself with every day, becoming less alien every moment he breathes in the Madrid oxygen and exhales the Barcelona carbon dioxide.

Cris holds Leo close to his body when they fuck, rolling his hips slowly, making sure Leo knows who’s the dominant one, knows who’s in charge, knows that Leo is _his_. The Portuguese’s breath is hot on the back of Leo’s neck, sending shivers down his spine. Fingers hold Leo’s hips steady, marking them white under the grip. The bed seems to shake with every thrust. The Argentinian presses his face against the solace of the glazed white silky satin sheets and inhales. Maria switched detergents. Hands grasp the linens and hold, releasing with each lapse in motion, knuckles white.

Leo’s hard cock bounces against his stomach, leaking precome. Cris slaps an open-palm hand against Leo’s ass, grabbing the cheeks before leaning closer to bite the thick of the smaller man’s shoulder, trailing the other hand down the pale skin of Leo’s stomach to wrap around his cock. Leo hisses at the contact, biting his lip. He can tell Cristiano is close, breathing husky now, nibbling at his ear.

In the back of his mind, a little voice tells Leo that he doesn’t _deserve_ to get off, doesn’t _deserve_ to feel good after such a poor performance that hindered his team. But, Cristiano acts otherwise, flicking his wrist with each stroke, swiping his thumb across the tip that has Leo panting and writhing under the weight of the other man. Leo knows that the older man likes it when Leo talks, it shows Cristiano how well he’s doing, but at this point, no words can form on Leo’s tongue.

Cris comes first, quickening his pace, tugging Leo’s hips back quicker now, with determination and purpose, rolling and grinding his grown down faster now, and Leo fears for a moment that the bed might break under the power of Cristiano, just pop the screws right out. Cristiano pulls out, like any gentleman would, rips off the condom, and strokes himself once to an orgasm, coming all over Leo’s back before collapsing by the Argentinian’s side, the bed dipping under his weight, watching him with lidded eyes, tongue peaking out of the corner of his mouth, cheeks flushed, lips kiss swollen, various purple bruises permeating the skin of his neck and collarbone.

Leo had said nothing the entire car ride home, just chewed on the inside of his cheek and stared out the window of Cristiano’s Lamborghini blankly as the smooth machine sped down the dark, cold Madrid road, not another car, not another soul, in sight. Cris understood that the younger man didn’t want to speak, and he accepted it silently, listening to the radio on low volume, content with just that. And when they arrived back at Cristiano’s massive mansion, Cris parked the car, but before getting out, in his deep, thick Portuguese accent, he spoke a very gentle, “It’s alright, meu amor,” before petting a very tender hand through Leo’s char black hair. Leo brought tentative eyes up to lock on Cris’ face as the other man got out of the car, shedding a bright, yet muted, grin, Leo’s way. And Leo doesn’t know why, but, betwixt the fatigue and disappointment, he wanted _more_ , wanted so much more. He got out of the car; Cristiano’s touch still tingling. For some reason, knowing that he would curl up in Cristiano’s arms and fall asleep that way tonight was not enough, he wanted something else. And as soon as Cristiano unlocked the door, strode through the threshold, and turned to lock it behind Leo, the smaller man, with all the energy that he should have used in tonight’s match, shoved Cristiano against the door, pressing himself against the Portuguese immediately, grabbing the lapels of Cristiano’s newly tailored suit, and crushing their lips together before Cristiano could catch a breath, before he could even object or ask what the hell Lionel thought he was doing. Leo used teeth and tongue, pressing his hips harder against Cristiano’s, until the taller man broke the kiss, breathing hard.

“What the _hell_ …?” Cris stared at Leo with wild, blown eyes in the dim lighting of the foyer.

Leo tried to tug the taller man back in, but he pulled back, “Not now, Leo, I’m—you’re—we’re tired, let’s just… go to bed.”

Leo shook his head, standing on his tiptoes to bring his lips to Cris’ ear, whispering the heinous words, _“I want you to fuck me.”_ The words hung in the silent air.

And it was like Cristiano stopped breathing for a moment and his brain couldn’t compute what he wanted anymore. Leo felt Cris’ hands trailing oh so delicately down his back before resting on his ass. A grin formed on Cris’ lips. Leo looped his arms around the back of Cris’ neck, their faces so near, pressing lips together, and with extreme care, the taller man hoisted Leo up to carry him, hands firmly on his backside, transporting up the winding stairs to the bedroom.

Leo presses his cheek further into the mattress, mouth agape, eyes screwed shut in pleasure and concentration.

Cristiano by his side speaks with sweet words, “Come for me Leo, you look so beautiful like this.”

And Leo can tell the arrogant bastard is grinning, can hear it in his voice, and with two more strokes, his coming into the sheets, light flashing behind shut eyelids.

He collapses against the silk, facedown, eyes flicking, fighting sleep, to Cristiano’s built frame to his left. Cristiano brings his hand to intertwine his fingers with Leo’s despite the heated sweatiness that Leo can’t hide.

“You did so well,” Cristiano coos.

And this could mean so many things and could be so incorrect in so many ways, but Leo doesn’t delve into disappointment and a weight is lifted off Leo’s chest. The feeling of not being good enough, of not scoring tonight, of hurting Ney and all his other Blaugrana friends, all disappears with Cristiano’s touch. Because at this moment, he’s good enough for Cristiano, and that’s all that matters to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. I LOVE it when you guys comment, it makes me feel like I'm doing something right, even if it's small, it makes my day. Thank you all for still reading and not giving up on me :)


	15. Hala Madrid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yayy updates

The lights at Santiago Bernabéu stadium shine bright, putting the twinkling stars, which dot the night sky, to shame. The glare from the white, blinding glow forces Cristiano to blink away the stinging, spotted visions he sees behind his eyelids when he squeezes them shut. After all these years, he’s still surprised by the omni-lustrous lighting system that sheds rays on every sprig of grass on the pitch, leaving nowhere to hide from the ever observant eyes of the spectators. The chilly early December air courses like an untamed river along a rocky creek, flowing downstream with an erratic pace, unplanned and unknown. And there’s a sense of excitement in the air, a spark of mystery at what the night will bring.

Blood red are the Bayern Munich kits that speckle the lush green pitch, taking on a Christmas aura from the mix of colors, misleading in appearance. Cristiano knows the score well, he needs not look at the board, which only would start a fire within the Portuguese. 1-2, Madrid behind by a goal. The German goalkeeper, Neuer, had a hell of a first half, only permitting one passed, Cristiano of course putting it by, off of a penalty kick, and Cristiano grows fidgety, the time on the clock ticking upward, racing toward the 80th minute with little to show for it on the Madrid side.

Leo paces to himself many yards away. The smaller man watches the earth, feet moving in short, determined steps in the same general area, head picking itself up from its focus on the earth to check on the play before reverting his focus back down when he finds himself unsatisfied. Leo practically swims in his loosely fitted uniform, the white complementing his already pale skin, contrasting his dark, unforgiving eyes and pitch dark hair, crest resting on his breast where the city and organization claims him now. He looks so unsettled, so perturbed, annoyed when he brings his gaze up just to find that the defensemen are no closer to gaining possession than the last time he tore his eyes from the pitch. Those grand overhead lights permeate the opaqueness, reflecting off of every surface, catching Leo’s velvety cream complexion perfectly, highlighting strong cheekbones and jawline, leaving him hazily glowing like a god, revealing a little purplish-blue mark on his neck when the material of his jersey at the collar shifts ever so slightly across his frame. Cristiano smirks to himself on the inside. He remembers that mark, his mouth sucking a statement against Leo’s warm, lively pulse point the night before. How the younger man _squirmed_ at the contact, at the heat from Cris’ mouth, begging and cursing at the same time, fingers threaded through Cristiano’s thick hair, tugging ever so slightly, just how Cris likes it.

Things started out bumpy between Cristiano Ronaldo and Lionel Messi, where it was weird to touch and be touched by the other, and Cristiano saw doubt in Leo’s eyes when he caressed his cheek and a feeling rose and grew within Cris’ stomach as he drifted his thumb across his rival’s skin. But, some supernatural entity brought them together, spawned a fervor within the pit of Cristiano’s heart that would only be subdued when Leo appeared, and with Leo, Cristiano’s thoughts raced, his heart thumped, and he could find something, someone, himself, in the Argentinian where he had never seen it before.

Messi puts his hands on his hips, drawing his head to watch the play again, shaking it when the Bayern forwards pass around Marcelo and Sergio. But, this time, the Argentinian doesn’t drop his head immediately, and instead, he catches Cristiano’s eyes. His face is determined and sharp, lips pressed together into a thin line. They say no words and Cristiano, for a brief moment, feels as if it is only they and no one else standing on the glimmering pitch. Leo must know the score too, must feel the frustration of it all rushing and thumping through his veins as Cristiano does, because in an instant, Leo breaks the gaze and a beat later, receives a pass from Benzema, taking off in the direction of the goal as if his feet had not just been planted into the still earth, standing there aimlessly a mere second before.

Cristiano’s legs are slow to react, and the Portuguese finds himself once again watching Leo. The smaller man strides with quick, short steps, agile and deft, weaving in and out of defensemen effortlessly, gracefully. Cleats pound the pitch relentlessly, the soft, docile earth, damp from a previous day’s storm, grass tickling the bottom of the boots gently as Leo powers through. And it’s as if the entire city of Munich wasn’t prepared for Lionel Messi, as if they needed a few days notice that Leo would be entering into the goalie box before they would be ready to stop him. And Lionel Messi blows right by the candy red kits and knocks it passed the towering goalkeeper in green easily.

Easily. That explains everything that Leo does and how he does it, because Leo makes everything look like he’s done it a thousand times before in that exact situation. And Cristiano’s legs propel him forward faster than he was running before Leo scored, tackling Leo to the pitch who runs freely with his arms wide open as to give the entire Santiago Bernabéu Stadium a big, Lionel Messi hug. Cristiano’s heart races within his chest beneath the crest of his meringue uniform, body pressed against Leo’s, staring with wild eyes into Leo’s dark, animated orbs, soft lips that Cristiano has kissed countless times, curved into a vibrant smile. Sergio, Karim, and even Gareth, charge to Leo and Cristiano who lie on the pitch without another care for the rest of the world around them.

And in Cristiano’s mind, the score burns a solid 2-2.

Leo Messi has tied it and his scoring drought is over.

Cris tucks a loose strand of hair behind Leo’s ear, faces close. _He’s mine. The whole world may watch him and admire him as theirs, but he is mind._

And Leo grins back at Cristiano as if he knows what the Portuguese is thinking and agrees with it.

Just like that, Munich is on the defense. It’s amazing how one player, one small piece of the puzzle, can disturb the entire momentum of a match. And that’s just what Leo did. And Cristiano feels an emotion close to pride when he watches as the suave, complete empire that is Bayern Munich fumbles in the last minutes of time, turn over after turn over, leading to rushes and chances for Madrid. And Leo is looking just for that, waiting for that moment when Cristiano crosses it in the 90th minute to the Argentinian and putting it into the open net, brushing twine, before anyone can think twice or stop him. For the second time in ten minutes, Cristiano can practically _feel_ the vibrations created from the jaws of the Bayern Munich fans dropping to the floor all at once. Cristiano runs to Leo, jumping and calling out as if he scored the game winner himself, tugging Leo into a hug.

The wind roars and whips against Cris’ cheeks, already tinting Leo’s pale skin a rosy pink. Cristiano cups Leo’s face and the Argentinian looks up at him with all the fervor and passion that Cristiano has ever seen him possess in those glistening, hopeful cocoa spheres.

The fans chant his name, _“Messi! Messi! Messi!”_ like an enraged, swelling sea, rising and falling with the tide. The final whistle permeates the air and the crowd grows louder still, waking the heavens and shaking the earth beneath their boots.

The noise is deafening, indescribable, and yet, all Cristiano can hear is Leo’s quiet, reserved voice, the one he has heard so many times in the past at Ballon d’Or ceremonies and award events, clear as day among the thousands of other voices saying words that light a fire within Cristiano’s soul, a flame that Cris knows will burn within Leo himself for many years to come, _“Hala Madrid.”_

 

 

 

 

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for reading still ILY all <3


	16. Serenity and Aches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I know this was a short update, but think that the story is almost finished. There will probably only be one or two more chapters after this one, so heads up!

Leo has found solace in Madrid, found peace within himself, with Cristiano, with the squad. The pitch at Santiago Bernabéu is less daunting each match, each training session, and his heart races with the familiar tempo that he used to feel as his feet pounded the earth of Camp Nou. The city roars with a name of equal strength and fury as Ronaldo. _Messi_ the fans shout with excitement, no longer hatred, young and old alike and Leo can feel it in his veins when he holds his breath to slow everything down, can see their white jerseys with the number 10 printed on the back when he squeezes his eyes shut to calm his thoughts. The white uniform feels of silky satin against his skin when he pulls it on, the color of his own complexion, no longer rough and coarse linen. And there is beauty in the starkness of it all, in the plainness that Leo never found in Barça.

It’s a snowy night in Madrid. December 23rd is the date Leo crosses off on the calendar as he shuts off the kitchen light. Dry, cold and cracked bare feet scuff across chilly tile in the dim lighting as the small Argentinian crosses into the wood-floored foyer. White flannel pajama pants ride low on his hips, the bottom cuffs draping down over his ankles to the floor, just waiting to be tripped over, about four inches too long and tailored to fit a 6’1” Portuguese. Cristiano is already asleep in the large bed covered in maroon-colored sheets up the stairs and down the hall. But Leo couldn’t sleep. In Cristiano’s massive overlooking-the-city mansion, Leo finds himself restless. Quiet feet climb the carpeted steps, one at a time, in no hurry, a hand gently tracing up the oaken banister.

This is the third night in a row now. Leo knows this. The idea sticks in the back of his mind like a pin. Although he has found himself on the pitch, in the locker room in the city, in the sheets, he can’t find himself within. He moves languidly in the night, in the darkness, hand turning the knob quietly, letting himself into the room where the Portuguese rests, undisturbed by Leo’s entrance, head placed gently on one of the many pillows piled against the headboard. The massive floor to ceiling window permits soft-tone moonlight to enter and illuminate Leo’s pathway. He goes to the glass and stares out a city asleep, a city as oblivious to Leo’s situation with himself as the man fifteen feet to his right, tucked under the covers, unperturbed. Because Leo didn’t want to tell Cristiano that he misses Barcelona. It’s a different kind of hurt than when he first arrived. It’s a dull knife that he sometimes forgets is digging into his flesh, slowly aiming toward his heart until he has room to feel and time to think and can fully comprehend just how different a life he lives now and how far away his old one is from his reach.

Leo tears himself from the window and slips beneath the covers. And although Cristiano is asleep, out of sheer reflex following from the slight dip in the bed created by a small Argentinian, he moves ever so slightly, closer to Leo, as if he is the earth and Cristiano, the moon, and he flows into Leo’s orbit instantly, drawing a hand to rest on the smaller man’s chest absentmindedly to remind him that he’s there for Leo even when he’s not fully _there_ , anchoring him in place, eyes still shut in serene slumber. Leo stares up at the stark white ceiling, eerie wintry moonlight still cascading in as his heart aches for a team that is no longer his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it was short, but how was it?


	17. O Leãozinho

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! The final chapter! I'd like to formally apologize in advance for such a late update! I had some personal items I had to deal with before I could settle down to finish this chapter. Thank you, thank you, thank you all for reading and commenting and supporting me through this fic, I appreciate it a thousand times over. Enjoy! :)

Stark wintry air cuts into Leo’s exposed cheeks, whipping and biting at the flesh, scraping at his skin like a cutting dagger. The stadium is full, dizzyingly loud, intoxicatingly impressive, and Leo forces himself not to faint when he looks up and all around. His white kit swims about his frame as if it isn’t even a part of him, as though it is a secular, separate piece that divided from his body as soon as he stepped foot on the pitch, as if the fabric didn’t want to be seen with Leo, or possibly even the other way around, his inner Culé finally reemerging when his feet touched down once again on the pitch at Camp Nou.

Leo looks over to Cristiano and wonders what the other man is thinking, surrounded by all his enemies, by all Leo’s ex-teammates, but the Portuguese’s eyes are distant, face dark and shrouded with a dangerous emotion that Leo hasn’t seen since the last Clasico, where Leo wore burgundy and navy and Ronaldo was Ronaldo and Messi was Messi. And when Leo looks down the pitch to observe the other team, it is as though they are strangers. He can barely recognize Ney or Suarez, his line mates, so unusual. The sight almost pains him, and he fights the feeling to cross the little white line onto their side and face off against Iker and Marcelo and Ramos like times past. His feet stay planted and the wind howls.

The whistle chops through the air tightly and the voices in the stands cry out. The grass, crusty and frozen, crunches beneath his cleats, dry and broken as the Argentinian trots along the field. Cristiano has the ball at his feet and at once is swarmed by blaugranas on all sides, and immediately, Cristiano looks for Leo, eyes connecting with the smaller man’s. And it’s like it’s only the two of them, the best in the world, with neither blancos nor culés watching, because Cris connects the pass with Leo so effortlessly, so easily, and the two take off down the pitch. The ball doesn’t want to roll on such a rough surface, Leo finds. His ears expect whistles and calls and chants when the ball meets his feet, but he receives nothing, except cheering, a loud wave that sounds like a violent ocean, a clash of both sides dueling each other to be heard over the commotion of the crash. And Leo runs, feet pounding the frozen pitch relentlessly, as if he’d never left Barcelona in the first place, as though the goal he were running toward was opposite to the goal that Bravo guards.

The small man ducks around Dani Alves, Marc Bartra, Mascherano, and finally Piqué, until Leo is alone by himself in the goalie box, as if Barça had let him in on their own accord. He knows that he has all the time in the world, that even Cristiano is a little ways a way behind the defense, and he can almost picture the heat of Cristiano seeping through two layers of clothes into Leo’s skin as the taller man embraces Leo for a hug after Leo takes the shot past Bravo’s gloved fingertips. But, Leo doesn’t know if he wants to take the shot. He sees all the empty netting in the goal and wonders if it’s too late to make a pass. Time seems to slow down altogether. The empty spaces seem to grow bigger, more prominent, mocking him, taunting him, encouraging action from a certain left foot. The crowd seems to hold their breath. And so does Leo.

The ball hits off the far post, coming out to a sprinting Cristiano Ronaldo who sends the object soaring back in the direction it came, over the goal. And, for now, Barcelona is safe. And so is Leo. His glances over to meet Cristiano’s eyes once again. The Portuguese shakes his head knowingly, disappointment apparent and piercing in his expression, aware that Leo very well could have scored, but held back. They speak no words but return to their positions.

Throughout the match, the small man finds familiar faces by his side mixed in with his own teammates in white. Nearing the end of the first half, Leo notices a shadow, a figure nearby despite the play on the other side of the pitch, a certain Andres Iniesta. His face is solemn, but his eyes are bright despite the tension hanging in the air like a dark cloud. The midfielder covers his mouth with his hand and begins to talk quietly, eyes flicking around to catch if they’re being watched, which obviously they are.

“It’s great to see you, Leo,” Iniesta speaks in a hushed tone.

“You look well,” Leo replies all the same. It’s uncomfortable, distant, and Leo can feel the other man’s eyes observing the white against Leo’s skin, as though it doesn’t belong there.

“Aye and you. I’m glad to hear that you are doing big things in Madrid, breaking records and whatnot,” Iniesta says calmly, gently, as if he doesn’t want to say something wrong, like the pinnacle of small talk, treating Leo as a new friend and not an old one.

Leo pauses for a moment, eyes glazed over, staring deadpan at the glistening sprigs of grass, stomach churning. He wants to ask so many questions, wondering so many things, curious as to all the little details of the every day that Leo has missed since his trade. What did Ney have for breakfast? How was the morning training session? Does Suarez still beat Xavi in arm wrestling? But, one inquiry rises above the rest, the words leaving his mouth before his brain can protest even though he knows he shouldn’t ask it, but the words are gone from his mouth, lingering in the air before he can pull them back into his thoughts, “Am I missed?”

And it’s as if Iniesta expected the question fully. Tired eyes come to rest on Leo’s face for the first time in a long time. A small, sad smile permeates his face. And his silence leads Leo to believe that Xavi had some sort of talk with the team before the match a ‘Don’t fawn all over Leo and embrace him’ type deal, and the other man speaks softly, “It was good talking with you, Leo,” before pretending to tie his lace and walk off in another direction.

The wind blows more coarsely now and the chills that run across the Argentinian’s skin touch him to the core.

At the half, Leo makes his way to the tunnel, feeling the trace of skin against skin as someone’s fingers brush his. He slows his walking momentarily, glancing behind to observe Neymar, a shy grin playing at his lips. And Leo’s chest tightens, and he wants to run and hug the Brazilian tight to his chest and not let go until he can love both Madrid and Barcelona equally. But, Suarez acts as the barrier between them, grabbing Ney’s wrist and tugging him along, shooting a sharp glare Leo’s way, just enough to spark the Argentinian’s feet into motion down the tunnel and away from the blaugranas of his past.

Cristiano isn’t exactly rough when he pulls Leo aside from the others, away from eyes to see. He presses the smaller man against the concrete wall, cupping his face in the darkness, pressing a kiss against Leo’s hair, wrapping arms around his waist.

“Don’t let them get to you, minha vida,” Cristiano’s voice is thick with his accent, low with a whisper.

And Leo blinks, unsure of a response.

“They’re just trying to get into your head,” the taller man continues, stroking a hand through Leo’s dark hair.

And that hurts Leo a bit, because he wants his old teammates to embrace him, to know that they care and appreciate all he had done in Barcelona, just once and then he, or so Leo thinks, would be free from Camp Nou and Barcelona and all of his past life. He says nothing.

“I know this is hard, Leo,” Cristiano draws back from the hug, examining Leo’s face with quick eyes, “Just, please, do this for me,” a thumb tips Leo’s chin up so their faces are close enough to touch, “focus,” Cristiano forms the word, pressing his lips to Leo’s letting the sound of it touch his skin with its force.

Focus. That’s all. That’s it. Then it’ll all be over.

 

The air feels as though it had become more enraged and rowdy between halves, blasting against the Argentinian, reminding him that he no longer belongs. Focus. That’s much easier said than done. As Leo makes his way back onto the pitch, he feels the weight of a stadium filled watching his every step, and he wishes to disintegrate and avoid their gazes.

Leo feels that if he can just _talk_ to Ney, just say a quick hello and tell him how much he’s missed his voice and that he’s sorry for their sour phone call, then he’d be alright. But Suarez makes sure to keep distance between the two, giving Ney no excuses to cross over to the other side of the pitch where Leo lurks. Piqué, sweet, gentle, Piqué won’t even _look_ in the smaller man’s direction. Mascherano finds solace in staring straight past his ex-teammates, as if the far wall is _way_ more interesting than the best footballer in the world. And Dani Alves just looks heartbroken, like Leo had been shipped off to Madrid just yesterday, his wound still fresh and hurting.

And then there’s Cristiano, eyes determined and unforgiving, relentless and intense, constantly sending the ball in Leo’s direction, despite Leo’s constant failure to produce results, slowly angering the Portuguese more and more with each giveaway and missed shot, for he knows what Leo can do, yet cannot contain the fact that Leo wont do it.

And usually, Leo would grow annoyed with Cristiano’s constant glaring, maybe even confront him in the middle of the match if he still wore the burgundy and navy, but Leo knows that Cris means only the best, knows that his love overcomes any feelings of disappointment he may have with the match and Leo’s lack of helpfulness.

And so, the Portuguese continues to send passes Leo’s way until the perfect chain of events commence to set Leo up for a certain goal. Cristiano crosses the ball after a pass from Ramos just past the midline following a rush, to Leo who traces down the left side, curling ever so slightly to middle. And Mascherano should have tracked the Argentinian better, should have covered him a bit more before the pass was made so he wouldn’t have to have made that mistake, so he wouldn’t have to have fouled the flea charging toward the goal.

Leo found himself suddenly falling toward the earth, unable to brace the impact any more than he would have liked. The crowd bursts into a tumult, like an enraged beast and suddenly, Madridistas and Culés are fighting on the pitch over none other than Lionel Messi. It’s Ramos against Suarez, Xavi against Iker (who felt the need to sprint down the field to get involved), Neymar against Marcelo, Cristiano against everyone. Words fly, cusses permeate the air, and Leo feels pressured to join in to defend himself.

But, amidst all the quarrelling, Leo finds a hand grab his arm and pull him from the whirlpool of fury. Piqué is warm and welcoming against Leo’s side, his arm wrapped around Leo’s shoulders protectively, as the two observe from outside the battle. Leo gawks up at the other man, confused.

“Can’t avoid you for long,” Piqué grins, and it’s soft and welcoming, just as Leo remembered it as, his eyes twitch back and forth across the scene playing out in front of them.

“But, everyone else?” Leo begins, bewildered, eyes wild, mind racing.

“It is what it is, Leo, y’know, we all would love everything to go back to the way it was, but we both know that it very well can’t, and sometimes we’ve gotta be enemies and other times, we can be friends, and it’s hard to accept it, but it will be okay,” Piqué speaks truthfully, giving the smaller man a soft, reassuring arm squeeze, and Leo just wishes that everything didn’t have to be this hard and complex.

And Sergio Ramos suddenly decides that he has to fuck everything up even more, storming over from the pit of the crowd of multicolored shirts, hissing through gritted teeth, “Get off him,” aimed at Piqué, who means no harm.

And from behind, a thoroughly exasperated Neymar shoves Ramos backward toward Marcelo and Bale, growling, “He’s _ours_.”

And Leo finds his eyes flicking up to the heavens and praying that a single intelligent thought would find its way into Ramos’ stubborn skull to not fight back and to let it go. But the Spaniard has too much pride, and if it weren’t for an enraged Iker Casillas, pulling the other man back, spitting out reprimands in Spanish all the while, Sergio could have sent his foot on a mission toward Neymar’s face.

The referees break up the commotion, not without several more outbreaks of shoves and threats, issuing Leo a penalty kick, for the original foul took place inside the goalie box.

And the crowd roars, an angry beast once again, wild with commotion. The deafening noise fills the air and for a moment it seems that the entire city is alight with a flame that struck a spark when Leo left in the first place. But, all the while, the pitch is silent, still, as though it is only Leo alone on the field, only Leo and an empty goal. The small Argentine glances back at his teammates clad in white, at a certain number seven who looks at him like he’s worth more than all the precious treasures in the world, worth more than the Ballon d’Or in itself, deep brown eyes full of so much pride, so much trust, so much respect. And Leo looks into the faces of teammates that he used to call his own, scanning the forlorn, dark faces of Mascherano, Xavi, Piqué, Dani, pleading gently in his mind that they would forgive him, before turning forward again to face Claudio Bravo, watching Leo with concentrated eyes, crouched low. And the wind fights against Leo with determination, cold as ice, and his lungs push to take in the biting oxygen through it all.

Leo shuts his eyes tight but only for a moment, imaging that he is young again, no older than five or six, running down the streets of Rosario with a ball at his feet, the mild summer air caressing his cheeks with the utmost playfulness, the sweet flowers in bloom teasing his senses as he dribbles against the rough pavement. And in there, he finds solace, finds his fire, sending the ball soaring in the air, cutting through the cold, past the gloved fingertips of the goalkeeper, hitting twine within seconds of the ball leaving the ground.

And it’s so surreal, the feeling. For one moment he stands, staring as the ball makes it to the back at the goal, next his focus zeroes in on the broken faces of the fans calling down to him from their seats, and finally, the Argentinian finds his feet carrying him like a god atop a chariot, arms outstretched embracing the current with teammates behind him chasing him like a herd of stallions. The white consumes him, voices lift him, and Cristiano supports him, holding him hard against his body among all the others, hidden from the world with his embrace, and Leo inhales the smell of the cotton of his jersey, pressed against his skin, the scent of Cris’ favorite Gucci cologne, and the faint hint of sweat and grass. And with all this, Leo finds home, even away from Madrid and Barcelona both, in Cristiano.

The final whistle follows soon after, the original remorse that sprung forth at the beginning of the match has left Leo altogether, and the Madrid crest presses perfectly against his heart, not weighing him down as it had done in the past. The faces of the blaugranas look disappointed to say the least as they stall about the field when the time has run out, but as eyes come up from the earth to meet Leo’s, solemn expressions turn friendly as old teammates and friends meet each other once again. Suárez bounces his hip against Leo’s rustling a hand through his old line mate’s hair. Neymar practically sprints across the field, jumping into Leo’s arms and clinging to his side relentlessly, ignoring Xavi’s words about behavior and image no doubt.

“Leooo, we missed you!” Neymar shouts, smile so brilliant.

And Leo grins back, “Ney, I missed you too.”

Even Xavi breaks his stone-cold facade to smile a little despite the loss and the white-kitted flea standing before him, hugging Leo tight to his chest. The rest of the blaugranas make their way over, hugging and kissing Leo on the face, some patting his head and bumping his shoulder, joking like times of old.

And the madridistas on the other side of the field don’t even object to Leo’s crowd, Cristiano nodding in approval a _you may have him for now, culés, but as soon as he steps off this pitch, he’s ours, he’s **mine**. _ And Leo silently thanks his teammates for that, for letting him find his roots again.

The sun is sinking beneath the top of Camp Nou, its golden rays peaking through gray clouds to shed a brilliant light on a frozen pitch, and Leo salutes the luminescent crowd, the fans, one last time before stepping down the tunnel, the sun setting on his final ties with Barcelona.

 

The hotel overlooks the view of Barcelona, of the city that once loved Leo like its own son, possibly still even does, ignoring the crest imprinted on Messi’s kit, flickering bright lights among the darkness welcoming their prodigal child home. The rest of the team is still out celebrating, no doubt, and Leo can practically picture Ramos in his head on the dance floor, attempting to impress Iker with his awful dancing, like always, Bale challenging Benzema to shots, like always, and James gawking at his teammates, petrified and lost, looking for Cristiano in all the mess, like always. Gray light files in from curtains drawn and Cristiano shifts under the covers, next to a nightstand that holds a clock burning a red 3:05 AM. The Portuguese stretches an arm behind his head, the post-sex rush still lingering on his sweat-slick skin, head foggy, muscles languid.

“Have I ever told you how pale you are?” Cristiano yawns into his words, eyes flicking over to observe Leo in the dimness of a black dusk.

The gentleness of his voice sends chills across Leo’s skin glowing in the moonlight, and being hyperaware of the other man’s eyes on him, he grabs a pair of boxers lying on the ground with his big and index toes, stepping into them rather clumsily.

“Have I ever told you how arrogant you are?” Leo retorts as he closes the curtains ever so slightly, allowing only so much of the city to peek through and watch the activities of the two best footballers in the world.

Cristiano grins that pearly, radiant smile, the one that lights up every room and turns all heads.

“Ah, but you love me for it,” Cristiano hums as Leo slides under the satin comforter beside the taller man.

And silence settles in the eerily dark room, only the hushed sounds of a city alive beneath them in the dead of night. The Argentine grows aware of his own heartbeat in his chest and the heat of Cristiano’s skin seeping into his own. And it even surprises him a little, that this man beside him used to be his enemy, a person that he hadn’t so much as carried on a casual, genuine, decent conversation with.

Feeling the need to feel, the other man wraps Leo in strong arms, pulling him close to let him rest his head against the Portuguese’s chest, a reassurance.

“You did so well today,” Cristiano whispers, and it’s barely audible.

Leo looks up, watching into those clear brown eyes, chest tightening at their reflection baring back at him.

He thinks back to the match briefly, to the goal that he scored that, just a few months prior, he would not have been able to execute for fear of his own and of those whom he holds dear. He thinks of Neymar, and of the texts and calls they’d promised to send each other to check in every now and then. And he is content with that.

“You know, I never want to lose you, meu amor?” Cristiano continues delicately, breaking up Leo’s thoughts with a steady voice.

Leo observes Cris’ expression, so genuine, so real.

“You are mine,” the Portuguese speaks so quietly, stroking a thumb against Leo’s cheek.

They don’t speak for a while, and Leo reasons that Cristiano must be thinking, for the room has finally settled into silence once again, the moon shedding dull light through the curtains, the city lights flashing absentmindedly in the background. And the last words that Leo hears before he drifts into a sweet sleep are words that Cristiano rarely says, but sound so gentle, so fervent, so passionate, like home in Madrid, lighting a fire in Leo’s heart when they drift into the air and linger in Leo’s mind.

“O Leãozinho.”

 

 

Beautiful art done by detodores

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all liked it, what did you all think? I had a great time writing it, love you guys!


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